Jury's Out
by dancingloki
Summary: About a year after the Battle of Midtown, the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D have all moved into Stark Tower as their new headquarters. However, the strange behaviour of Stark, Banner and Rogers has speculation running rampant. Is a love triangle brewing, threatening the team's unity? Agent Phil Coulson tasks Hawkeye and Black Widow with finding out. (Pairing: Stark Spangled Banner)
1. Chapt 1: Phil Coulson Loses His Patience

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter One: In Which Phil Coulson Has Had Enough Of Tony Stark's Bullshit

Stark is the one who starts it, obviously.

After the way he flirted shamelessly with both of them, everyone on S.H.I.E.L.D. staff expected a love triangle, expected conflict, division, and eventually heartbreak when Tony was finally forced to choose, when it was made clear to him that despite what his dick wanted he could not, in fact, have both.

Nobody expected Steve to start hanging out in the lab in his spare time, asking questions and laughing when Tony goaded Bruce into joining him in teasing Steve lovingly (but relentlessly) for finally coming out of his technophobe shell.

Nobody expected Bruce to start loitering around the gym, munching on blueberries or granola and watching Steve and Tony spar with a lazy, content smile that brightened when Tony hung over the ropes with a flirtatious grin and wink to ask if he wasn't SURE he wanted to go a round or two, while Steve leaned in the corner with a look that would have been called a smirk on a less noble face.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was, naturally, divided on the subject. Those who supported Bruce/Tony insisted that Steve's sudden fascination with the lab work was just him trying to be a good team leader, making an effort to show interest in the important work his team members were doing. Those who supported Steve/Tony maintained that Bruce's appearances in the gym were part of his efforts to keep the Other Guy under control by exposing himself to a stressful, pseudo-violent environment.

But, since nobody knew for certain, speculation ran wild as the entire organization of Highly Professional Adults waited, holding their breath, to see which way the ball would roll. Natasha and Clint, who remained publicly neutral, were at the center of an intense, hotly brutal, and very profitable betting ring. Director Fury very deliberately turned a blind eye to the whole mess (although, after what happened to Stark when he made one too many eyepatch jokes last month and Fury finally snapped, nobody used that particular idiom anywhere there was the slightest chance he might hear).

The whole ridiculous mess finally came to a head when Coulson—the only one in the whole place who had managed to keep a clear head—got fed up with people being so distracted by gossip they got behind on their paperwork, and pulled the two superspies-slash-ringleaders aside for a scolding.

"Hawkeye. Black Widow. A word."

The small throng of eager betters vaporised in the face of Coulson's disturbing calm. Clint and Natasha traded nervous glances as they followed the deceptively placid Agent into an empty conference room.

A long pause followed, in which two ruthless trained killers were devolved into anxious teens by folded arms, raised eyebrows, and a patient, "I'm-not-angry-I'm-just-disappointed" stare.

Clint broke first, trying to dispel the tension with a transparently halfhearted cheeky grin.

"Hey, Phil, what's on your mind? Listen, if this is about that thing with the jello in the coffee machine, we had nothing to do with that, I saw Thor in there earlier and you know he's got a temper but—" His babbling was cut off by Natasha driving a sharp elbow into his ribs.

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose as he replied in Controlling My Temper Tone #17.

"No, Barton, this is not about the coffee machine. I could not care less about the coffee machine. In fact, I could not care less about **ANY** of the nonsense you two get up to in your down time, although maybe if Fury would actually LISTEN to me for once instead of just shouting at me to get you under control, and remember that people with your skill sets and backgrounds need work and stimulation and that maybe it would help you act like adults if you weren't forced into this sedentary lifestyle with one mission every few months…I mean honestly what does he expect, you're going to keep your abilities honed one way or another, chewing me out because you're getting restless and taking it out on the coffee machines isn't going to change the fact that he won't give you any real work to do…"

Coulson trailed off in the middle of his rant, visibly composing himself as he heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. Both assassins shifted uncomfortably, shamefaced and avoiding each others' gaze.

"Phil, we're really sorry," Natasha began. "We were just messing around because we were bored, we didn't realize it was getting you in hot water with the director. The prank war is over, no question, and we'll even stop tailing Agent Hill for blackmail material—"

"And we'll stop stealing Fury's pens," Clint cut in. "And sneaking sex toys into Thor and Jane's rooms. And trying to break into Stark's private labs. And reprogramming the speaker system to blast dubstep in the middle of briefings. And—"

"Enough, enough," Coulson stopped him with raised hands and a tired smile. "I told you, I don't care about that stuff, and I can handle Fury. But this thing with Stark…" His face grew serious. Natasha and Clint traded looks. "It has to stop. You've already taken a small fortune in bets, and I've had it up to here with the gossip and distraction. I know you've been fueling the fire, and I have officially run out of patience. End it. Now. Today. I don't care how, as long as I don't hear anything from Fury about it. Find out which one of them Stark managed to seduce, cash out the bets, and put the whole thing to bed so we can all move past it." He turned on his heel and strode determinedly out of the room, not quite fast enough for them not to overhear him mutter under his breath.

Clint and Natasha stared at each other.

"Did he just say, 'I really hope it's Banner'?" Clint murmured uncertainly.

Natasha sighed. "He probably just doesn't want the memories of his childhood hero tarnished by Cap being with someone as...let's say 'morally flexible' as Tony. So how should we play this?"

Clint shrugged. "Come on, Tasha, you're the one with the interrogation skills, I'm just the triggerman." He flashed another cheeky grin, chuckling when she rolled her eyes.

"Well, I think our best bet is going to be staking out Stark's rooms; whoever he's getting groinal with, it's only a matter of time before the two of them end up there. We can't bug the rooms electronically, though, JARVIS would pick up on it and warn him. Think you're up for an old-school stakeout?"

Clint stretched lazily. "No problem. It's been a while since I gave the vents a dusting, not since we dropped that stinkbomb in the HR conference on synergy back in November, I think. I'll plot out an attack route that bypasses the security alarm if you get the gear together."

"Deal." Natasha sauntered towards the door. "Meet back here in an hour?"

"Make it two. And make sure you get a film camera, Tony's probably got a white noise bomb jamming any digital recording in his rooms." Clint's grin widened when Natasha turned to glare at him.

"не учи ученого, Clint. Don't teach a scholar."

And she stalked out of the room.

...

A/N: The thing Natasha says to Clint at the end is pronounced "ne učí učónogo" and literally translates to "don't teach a scholar"; it's a Russian idiom, equivalent to "don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs". It basically means don't give advice to someone more skilled/knowledgeable than you. (source)


	2. Chapt 2: Clint Regrets His Life Choices

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter Two: In Which Clint Barton Re-evaluates His Life Choices

Natasha was already waiting for him when he returned, lounging in one of the conference chairs with her feet propped up on the table and an annoyed look on her face.

"We said two hours, Clint, not two and a half. I've been bored out of my mind."

"I know, I'm sorry. Stark's buffed the firewalls since the last time we went in after the building blueprints, it took longer than I thought to break back through. I got it all sorted out, though." He tossed a file folder onto the table and flopped down into the chair next to her.

Natasha swung her feet off the table and picked up the folder, thumbing through the contents.

"This looks pretty solid. You found a way around the thermal sensors on Level 23, that's good…What do you expect for your travel time, five hours tops?"

"Four and a half, if I don't hit any problems. If I leave now I should get to his rooms before they're even thinking about heading there, which hopefully they will do tonight because I really do not want to make this trip more than once."

"Oh, quit whining, you big baby." Natasha smirked and shoved the bag she had left on the table towards him. "Here. Standard kit, hooks and cable for scaling, comm, and camera—film, obviously." She shot him another dirty look when he started grinning. "I even threw in a couple energy bars and a bottle of water in case you get stuck for the night."

"I knew you cared deep down," Clint threw back flippantly as he dug through the bag. "Awww, vanilla?! Are you punishing me for something?"

Natasha rolled her eyes and stood, climbing onto the table to begin unscrewing the air vent on the ceiling.

"Complain to whoever stocks the kitchen, not to me. Now help me get this thing undone."

Clint heaved a deep sigh, stuffing the folder into the bag with the gear and joining his partner. Together they loosened the vent cover and pulled it out of place. The redhead cupped her hands, boosting the still-grumbling man up towards the opening, where he swung himself cleanly through and began moving through the vents, working his way upwards towards the master suite.

...

Clint was not happy. Instead of the expected four and a half hours to reach Stark's rooms, the trip had taken him nearly seven. He'd had to plot an entirely new route when he encountered motion sensors on Level 18 that weren't on the plans he had lifted from the database, which was not **nearly** as painful or obnoxious as listening to Tasha laugh her ass off when he brought her up on the comm to admit he had gotten lost not once, but twice.

"What is the point," Clint grunted to himself as he climbed, "of even _having_ blueprints to a building…if you aren't going…to _follow_ them?"

Still, he was finally here. And, judging by the noises growing steadily louder as he closed the last few yards to the vent opening in Stark's bedroom, he wouldn't have to make this hike more than once.

"Okay, let's get this over with," he muttered under his breath. Clint knew talking to himself aloud on a mission wasn't generally considered a good habit for a spy, but then he and Natasha hadn't become the best in the game by being typical. Besides, the men below would be far too preoccupied with their business to notice him, even if his voice were audible outside the vent.

"Get up to the vent, snap a couple of Kodak moments, then get back down to ground level and drink until I can forget seeing Tony naked. Might have to bleach my frontal lobe, wonder if R&D has anything in the works for that?"

He wrestled with his gear kit, wrangling the camera out in front of him then wriggling forward the final few feet to bring his eyes level with the slit and look down into the room.

Clint's mouth fell open and the color bled away from his face.

He had not expected this.

Nothing in all his training or experience prepared him for the tableau spread out below him in full-frontal, three-dimensional, large-as-life, grunting and moaning Technicolor.

Doctor Bruce Banner was lying on his back in the center of the bed, curly hair mussed and tangled; his eyes shut and mouth hanging open, wearing nothing but a heady flush beginning at his cheekbones and continuing down his neck to his shoulders and chest. Clint's traitorous gaze followed its path, noting how his left hand was knotted—almost painfully tight—in the sheet by his side before jumping back to his sweat-slick chest, following the trail of dark hair to his groin where his other hand was grasping the back of Tony's head.

Stark had his face buried between Bruce's legs, sliding his mouth up and down the length of Bruce's shaft. Banner caressed his head, gently but firmly, weaving his fingers through Tony's hair and massaging the tensed muscles at the back of his neck. Tony's hands were wrapped around the backs of Bruce's thighs, sliding back and forth, up and down from mid-thigh to cup his ass and—Clint twisted his head to the side—did he just stick his finger up Bruce's ass oh my God he did! And the doctor's head was rolling back, eyes screwed even tighter in ecstasy as he let out a low, stuttering moan, the hand on Tony's head clenching down on a fistful of his hair.

The small voice in the back of Clint's head that always remained aloof and detached no matter how intense his emotions or how stressful the situation was keeping a running commentary that he **_could really do without so shut up thank you very much_**. At the moment, it was pointing out, somehow managing to sound both disinterested and impressed, that Tony clearly either had a lot of practice or naturally no gag reflex. He didn't seem to be choking at all, despite Bruce holding him so tight and close that he had no choice but to take the whole length of his cock.

Based on his reaction, though, Tony had no objection to being manhandled or roughly used in the bedroom. The hand currently _not_ fingering Bruce's hole tightened on the back of his thigh, probably—in Clint's detached internal monologue's professional opinion—hard enough to bruise. Clint's gaze was once again drawn unwillingly downwards, along Tony's body, propped up on his elbows and knees, to where strong, wide hands gripped his hips.

Later, in a calmer environment when he'd had time to reflect, Clint would decide that he really shouldn't have been so surprised by the Captain's language. After all, Steve Rogers was a soldier, an Army man. He'd fought in the war, he'd lived a soldier's life and spent a lot of time in soldiers' company; soldiering came with a colorful vocabulary, that was natural. People, Clint would later muse, should not be so quick to assume that gentility automatically meant innocence. Just because Cap was always and unfailingly polite and respectful and chivalrous didn't mean that he was naïve or unworldly; choosing virtue didn't mean he didn't have other options. He just had a great filter.

Still, it was a distinct shock to learn that Captain America had a really, **_really_** filthy mouth in bed. Clint had known Cap was flexible in his sexuality—it matched the American Way legend, to be honest, that he would fall in love with people instead of genders or sexes—but that he would be so…_raunchy_ was a shock. That said a lot about his assumptions about the man, the little voice pointed out, that seeing him plowing into Tony with firm, powerful strokes, his always-perfectly-combed hair mussed and his eyes dark with desire was somehow less shocking than the non-stop litany of obscenities, both curses and the dirtiest dirty talk Clint had ever heard, flowing out of his mouth. Okay, so a REALLY great filter.

Steve was setting a punishing pace, which Bruce began to match. They alternated, Bruce bucking forward into Tony's throat as Steve withdrew only to thrust unrelentingly back into him as Bruce collapsed back onto the bed, rocking Tony back and forth between them without pause or respite. Tony's desperate grunts mingled with Bruce's wordless moans as Steve's stream of "fuck"s and "so tight"s and "gonna make you come so hard"s and "you love my cock don't you you dirty slut"s continued, at least an octave lower than Clint had ever heard his voice go before.

Steve managed to hold Tony's hips firmly in place with one hand while sliding the other around the smaller man's hip to wrap around his cock. The blonde began stroking him, at the same unforgiving pace, twisting his wrist and teasing the head with his thumb each time his hand reached the tip. It only took a few strokes before he was tensing up, his whole body rigid, then limp as he came into Steve's hand, spilling over his fingers.

Bruce was only moments behind, coming violently down Tony's throat with a shout. He lay back weakly onto the bed, watching Steve fuck Tony with the same lazy smile he wore to watch them spar in the gym. Steve's rhythm grew erratic, his words incoherent, dissolving into a constant stream of _fuck-yes-baby-good-fuck-oh-yes_ until with one final shove he came, buried deep inside Tony. They collapsed onto the bed, rolling forwards to land on their sides next to Bruce, Steve's softening cock still buried in Tony's ass. For a moment, the three men lay there, stretched out side by side, panting from the exertion and basking in the post-coital glow as the sweat beading on their bodies began to cool them.

Bruce reached out to gently and lovingly stroke Tony's jawline, smearing his thumb over the dribble of come leaking out of the corner of Tony's mouth where his release had been too much for him to swallow. He leaned forward, capturing the exhausted inventor's mouth with his own, plundering Tony's mouth with his tongue to taste the mess he had left there. Steve smirked as the kiss dragged on, pulling a last low moan out of Tony, who buried his head into Bruce's shoulder the minute they broke apart, limp between his two lovers.

A strong, unnaturally muscled arm reached over Tony's back to pull Bruce in tight against his chest. Steve and Bruce shared a tender, gentle kiss over Tony's head that seemed to last ages, finally pulling apart with identical sighs and loving smiles. Steve stroked up along Bruce's back to caress his cheek.

"I love watching your face when you finish," the soldier murmured softly. "You look so peaceful…not trying to control yourself or hold anything in, it's like you just let go and completely relax. It's beautiful."

Bruce ducked his head with a shy smile. "To be honest, Steve, when we started this was the first time since my…accident…that I've been able to feel that way. You and Tony…" At the mention of his name, the man in question nuzzled deeper into the crook between Bruce's shoulder and his neck, bringing a chuckle from both his companions.

"He asleep already?" Steve asked.

" Wouldn't be surprised. He works too hard. So do you, incidentally. Being team leader doesn't mean you have to run yourself ragged and handle every problem that comes up by yourself."

Another gentle sigh ghosted past Steve's lips, too fond to be called exasperated. "I know how to take care of myself, Bruce, and I know my own limits. It would take a lot more than the workload S.H.I.E.L.D. gives me to run me ragged. You know firsthand that that I've got…" he paused suggestively… "impressive stamina."

Bruce huffed a small breath of laughter before leaning forward to plant another soft kiss on Steve's lips, interrupted by a loud groan from Tony, whose voice was muffled by Bruce's shoulder.

"Flirt later. I'm lying in the wet spot, in case anyone's interested."

Steve craned his neck to place a loving kiss on the back of Tony's neck. "Thought you were asleep, babe."

"I would be, if you two would can the mushy talk and quit keeping me awake," Tony grumped. "Still on the wet spot, by the way. Not that anyone, you know, cares."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but without any real irritation. "Well we can't have that, can we."

Clint jumped, jolted back to his senses by the sudden motion of the men below him readjusting on the bed, and he suddenly remembered where he was and, more importantly, what he was doing there.

"Jesus fucking _fuck_," he breathed out, followed by a string of other assorted and creative curses as he brought the camera up and snapped a few quick shots, the last remaining shreds of his sanity being just enough to make sure he got a clear view of all of their faces. He got the pictures just in time before Tony ordered the lights out, and started working his way frantically back down the air duct, babbling to himself.

"Both of them. He's sleeping with _both_ of them. How did my life come to this? Where exactly did I go wrong in my life choices that this could be a thing that could happen to me? This is ridiculous, this is freaking ridiculous, if I had known that this is what my life would come to I would have never left the circus…"

Clint paused.

"Phil is NOT gonna be happy."


	3. Chapt 3: Nick Fury Loses His Temper

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter Three: In Which Nick Fury Loses His Temper

"It is NOT FUNNY, Tasha," Clint growled.

Natasha, breathless with laughter, shook her head helplessly as she doubled over again.

"Yes, it is," she managed to gasp out between fits.

"No, it's not!" It wasn't a wail, Clint told himself. He was far too manly for that. "What is Fury gonna say? What is **Phil **gonna say?!"

Still shaking, she managed to get control of herself and straightened up, still grinning maniacally.

"Clint, Phil will be fine. Captain America may be his childhood hero, but he respects Steve Rogers as a man and an equal; if Steve's happy, then Phil will be happy for him. As for Fury, he'll get used to the idea. Or he won't, and Tony's sarcasm and smartassery will drive him into an early grave. Either way, it's not our problem."

"Not our _problem_? Natasha, are you _CRAZY_?! How is this not our problem? This is our team, these are our friends!" He collapsed limply onto a table.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Enough with the melodrama, Barton. Seriously, from the look on your face when you dropped out of that vent, I would have thought you'd seen Stark fucking **_Loki_** or something, you looked like death! You wouldn't even tell me what was going on until I'd seen the photos, made me help you develop them—at three in the morning, no less—oh stop hyperventilating, honestly, you're such a child."

"How can you be so calm about this?!" and yes, that one was a wail, Clint's internal monologue sneered.

"How am I being calm? I just spent ten minutes in hysterics."

"Laughing. **_Laughing_**. You're **_happy_** about this."

"I think it's hilarious, yes. Stop making that face at me, you big baby. Look, what's the big deal?"

"What's the _big DEAL_?!" Very masculine, the little voice commented. I like the way your voice went up an octave at the end there. _Shut up_, Clint told it.

"Yes, Clint, what is the big deal?" Natasha sighed, exasperated. "Three people, whom we love and care about, have entered into a consensual romantic relationship. Which, from what you've told me, seems to be making all three of them pretty damn happy. So where's the bad?"

Clint sputtered, soundless, as she went on. "Besides, the list of people who put bets on a three-way is exactly nobody, so house takes all and we just made bank. So yeah, I'm feeling pretty good. What is the matter with you, anyway? Why are you acting so squirlish about this?"

Clint shifted and looked away. Natasha's face grew solemn, and she crossed the room to sit next to him.

"What's going on?" When he still didn't respond, she reached over to take his hand. "Clint, talk to me."

His fingers tightened around hers, and she waited. A long moment passed, and anyone else would have missed the whispered answer.

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, Clint?" she asked softly.

She waited patiently through another long pause until he found his voice again, whispering his fears into the dimly lit room.

"I don't…what if everything changes? Thor's off-planet more than half the time, and when he's here he's nearly always with Jane; if those three get all cozied up together…what about us? What happens to us? I don't…I don't want to be alone again."

She looked down at the floor, eyes suddenly moist. Clint swung around to face her, clutching her hand with both of his in sudden panic.

"Oh God, I didn't mean that you're not enough for me or something—I love you, Natasha, more than anything; you know that, it's just…friends. We have _friends_, for the first time in our lives, more than just a fellow agent or a handler, even one like Phil. People we can trust, people we can—can get close to… After what happened with Loki it took me months to convince myself that they really trusted me, that it wasn't just an act, that we were really a team, not just together by necessity. It's been just you and me, just the two of us against the world for _so long_, I'd nearly forgotten there were other ways to live. But now… It's just what we were always afraid of. We gave the world a way to hurt us, got close, got compromised, and now we've got something to lose, and…I don't want to lose it."

He sighed deeply. Natasha smiled half-heartedly and reached up to stroke his cheek.

"Nothing's going to change, Clint. Them being together doesn't leave us out in the cold. We're still a team, still a—a family." Her throat nearly closed around the word, but she got it out. _There, I said it_.

"I know that, but…" he was whispering, nearly imperceptible again. "What if we're wrong? What if they get so close together there's no place for us anymore, and it's just you and me again? Two of them pairing up wouldn't ruin anything, but if the three of them get joined at the hip and Thor fucks off to Asgard again, it'll be just like before, we'll be all alone again and I can't…I just can't. I wasn't prepared for this."

Another long pause followed. Her voice, when she found it, was sad, but steady.

"It won't happen, Clint. Not ever. Do you really believe that Steve would let his own relationship make even one of his team, just one of the people under his command, into an outcast? He values each of us equally, not just for what we can do but for who we are. He wouldn't leave us out in the cold, not in a million years. And Tony might be an arrogant asshole on the outside, but he cares too—about ALL of us. Look at the care and detail he put into designing the new tower, making sure you had lookouts wherever he could fit them in, and that range he made us is state-of-the-art. He spent _weeks_ working on the space, making sure we'd be comfortable. And Bruce; Fury cut him loose, he could have gone anywhere, but he's right here in New York."

"He stayed for Tony," Clint muttered.

"He stayed for all of us," she retorted. "And he decided to stay long before there was even a hint of interest between him, Tony and Steve—Tony was still dating Pepper back then, remember? Besides, who do you think designed the tips for your new quiver? Stark's good, but he doesn't have the chemical and radiological expertise to come up with those things. Bruce made those, I guarantee it, and he put his heart into each one. It's gonna be weird for a while, I won't deny it, but this won't ruin us."

"You're right." Clint offered up a shaky smile. "And I do trust them, all of them; like you said, we're family. It's just hard to believe this won't go wrong when we've lived through so much wrong already."

That got a soft chuckle. "Yeah, I know what you mean, but things are different now. WE'RE different. Now come on, let's go break the news and collect our winnings."

She wiggled her eyebrows comically, drawing a genuine laugh from Clint as he followed her out into the hallway.

...

Phil Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a massive headache building between his temples.

Nick Fury had been shouting for—Phil checked his watch—23 minutes solid, and showed no signs of slowing. Apparently he had been less "turning a blind eye" and more "completely oblivious" to the brewing romance in Stark Tower.

Barton and Romanoff had made the _stunningly_ poor decision to cash out their betting ring **right in front** of the Director. (For a tidy profit, though, which was nearly doubled by the inspiration Natasha had to hock copies of the nude photos Clint took of the trio.) Predictably, this had resulted in the entire Avengers team, plus Assistant Director Maria Hill, Miss Pepper Potts, and himself, being hauled unceremoniously into Fury's office to listen to his blood pressure skyrocket.

Phil let his mind wander as he tuned out Fury's familiar bellow, idly sweeping his gaze around the room. The three culprits stood center stage before Fury's desk: Rogers with his arms folded across his chest and his jaw set (_He's got the bit between his teeth_, Phil thought with a twinge of pride, _Fury can't intimidate the Captain_), Banner looking tired and irritated rather than stressed (_he was expecting this; he's been readying himself for it_, Phil realized), and Stark—well, Stark wouldn't stop rolling his eyes, and was clearly just waiting for Fury to pause for breath so he could unleash a torrent of sarcasm.

The supporting cast had a wider range of emotions. Hill was stoic, as usual; attentive, but unresponsive to Fury's tirade. Potts was mirroring Rogers' resolve, but with slightly more steel than stone; there was a glint in her eye that Phil was sure would spell trouble for Fury if he took his anger too far. _She looks like she's ready for a war_, Phil thought._ Obviously, she already knew about them; of course Stark would have cleared it with her before he made a move, he respects her too much not to_.

The remaining Avengers were less disciplined. Thor was over in the corner off to the side, looking badly confused; he was generally oblivious to all else when Jane was within a hundred miles, and Phil wondered idly if anyone had actually bothered to explain to him what Fury was yelling at them about. Probably not, judging by the mystified look on his face. As for his two favorite pains in the ass…they were lurking in the back of the room, shifting guiltily and doing their best to turn invisible.

Phil tuned back in to Fury, who seemed to be drawing to a close. The director's voice lost none of its intensity as his volume dropped, settling into a low menace.

"Now, I'm gonna ask you this one time, Captain. Just one, and I'd better like the answer, or there's going to be hell to pay. What on God's green Earth made you think that becoming 'involved' "—he actually marked the word with air quotes, much to Phil's quiet amusement—"with a member of your team, much less TWO of them, would be a good idea?"

Rogers took a deep breath before answering in a calm, controlled voice that almost, but not quite, completely failed to disguise the anger he was barely containing.

"Director Fury, with all due respect, and please, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure that's none of your business."

Phil had never seen the vein on Fury's forehead stand out so far.

"None of my business? _None _of my _business_?! That three of my agents are engaged in a relationship that could potentially damage the team's integrity and compromise any mission they're sent on? That speculation about that relationship, all behind my back, reached a level where it was interfering with this organization's ability to function?! You're telling me that shit is none of my business?"

"Um, yes, Nicky, that's exactly what he said." Stark had found his opening. (_Oh, Lord; here we go_, Phil thought.) "He was pretty specific. You heard him. Unless the eye…thing…did that damage your hearing, too? Otherwise, active listening, you know, it's a pretty vital skill for someone in management, I think Stark Industries will be having a seminar pretty soon—"

"Stark, do not test me," Fury cut him off, venom dripping from every word. "I expect this kind of immature, self-centered bullshit from a spoiled child with too many toys, but to be honest, I kinda thought Banner and Rogers were above it."

"You can't talk to him like that."

Phil looked up, startled. He'd never heard Banner speak with such ringing conviction before.

"Damn right he can't," Rogers seconded. "Tony's a hero, he's proved that over and over, you've got no right to talk about him that way."

Fury opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Banner for the second time.

"No, that wasn't…I mean, yes of course Tony's not a spoiled child and everything," he hastily corrected himself to head off the indignation before it could form, "but that isn't what I meant. I meant, you can't talk to any of us like that."

"We're adults, director," he continued, more hesitantly. "And we don't really work for you. I mean, we're consultants, not actually part of S.H.I.E.L.D., right? No offense, but you're not actually the boss of us. All those workplace rules about not dating co-workers don't really apply. You can disapprove, but you can't make us stop. Like Steve said, it really is none of your business who we're with. Besides, what are you going to do, replace us?"

Tony snorted with laughter, shouldering past Steve to sling an arm roughly around Bruce's shoulders. "I think I'm rubbing off on you, big guy," he smirked. "And for once, I don't mean that literally." His smirk widened at the strangled sound Fury made.

Pepper sighed and stepped between Tony and Fury, who looked about ready to leap over the desk and strangle him, neatly taking control of the situation. "Colorful banter aside, Director Fury, the fact is that it's a moot point. Bruce is completely right on all points. None of them have any legal obligation to S.H.I.E.L.D., since Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark are both involved as consultants, and Captain Rogers' enlistment ran out approximately"—she checked her watch for dramatic effect—"sixty-four years ago. They're volunteers, not soldiers. Besides, we all know that all three men are irreplaceable, so throw all the tantrums you want, but you don't have the power to control this. Tony, Bruce and Steve are consenting adults, who have the right to be together, if that's what they want. You're just going to have to get used to the idea."

She checked her watch, this time businesslike instead of sardonic. "And I believe I have given you enough of my valuable time. Director, ladies and gentlemen." And she turned on the heel of her $300 pumps and strode briskly from the room without another word, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

...

A/N No porn in this one, just plot, sorry! Is it just me, or does every chapter end in a dramatic exit? Oh well. This should be the last chapter from an outside character's perspective, at least for a while; I'll be writing from one of the threesome's POV now. Also oops I got some Clintasha in your Stark Spangled Banner oops


	4. Chapt 4: Tony Stark Gets Scolded

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 4: In Which Tony Stark Is Schooled On Proper Behaviour

Steve wouldn't have thought anyone could have made Fury back down so easily, but after the brutal thirty-second smackdown Pepper had delivered, they hadn't heard a whisper from him. Sure, he was grumpier than usual, almost—_what was that word_ _Bruce used the other day? Oh yeah!_—terse, and he tended to glower a little darker at the three of them than at the others during briefings; but honestly, after the initial outburst, he seemed to be dealing really well. _Tony behaving himself probably helps with that_, he mused. _I wonder what he's up to._

"It is a little strange…" he murmured.

Bruce looked up from his book. "Hmmm?"

"Hmm?"

"What's strange?"

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking out loud. It's Tony…" he trailed off, staring into space.

Bruce chuckled. "Tony's strange? Well, I could've told you that. I'm surprised it took you this long to figure out."

Steve shook the cobwebs out of his head with a good-natured laugh. "I didn't mean it like that, and you know it. I was just thinking, don't you think it's odd that he's been so well-behaved? I would have thought he'd take every chance to rub it in Director Fury's face, that he can't do anything about us, I mean. But he's been well-mannered and really polite—well, what passes for polite with Tony. I just think it's strange."

"Not that strange," Bruce replied, shutting the book with a smile and crossing over to the couch where Steve was reclining. "Keep in mind who his boss is."

His confusion was etched on the blonde's face, even as he readjusted to allow Bruce to snuggle into his side. "Well, Fury's our commander, but we all know he can't keep Tony's attitude in line. That's sort of what I meant."

Another chuckle escaped as Bruce darted forward to plant a swift kiss on Steve's lips. "You're adorable when you're confused, you know that? Like a lost little puppy." The chuckle deepened to a full-blown laugh when the soldier's expression came dangerously close to a pout. "I meant his _boss_. You know, the one and only person who CAN keep our boy in line. Miss Pepper Potts, who single-handedly ran a gigantic corporation AND managed Tony's bullshit, for years. And who, incidentally, scares the hell out of me. I know she stood up for us in front of Fury, but I guarantee you she's got Tony on a pretty short leash as far as sassing the Director goes. He might not have any legal right to separate us, but that doesn't mean he couldn't find lots of ways to make our lives interesting if he was really opposed to this. Master spy, remember."

Bruce sighed and leaned into Steve's broad chest. "Stopping Tony from provoking him is probably the political equivalent of extending an olive branch; plus it gives Fury the chance to get used to us instead of Tony pushing him to the breaking point. I'll be damned if I can figure out how she does it, though. One of these days we'll have to get her to teach us."

Steve smiled, any anxiety wiped clean. "What fun would that be?"

"Fun?" Bruce deadpanned. "You're absolutely right, Steve. I don't know what I was thinking. It is **_so much fun_** having Tony antagonize absolutely everyone he meets, and stay awake for three days because he got distracted by a project then crash and sleep for 36 hours straight, and get blackout drunk and pass out wearing half his suit, and hide pop-up toys all around my lab to test my control over the Hulk. I have absolutely no interest in learning how someone influences his behaviour to make him act like he's over the age of 14."

The look of uncontrived glee Steve wore as he struggled not to laugh made it impossible for Bruce to keep a straight face, and they dissolved into distinctly unmanly giggles, collapsing on each other on the couch.

After a moment, Steve broke the contented silence. "She is one hell of a woman, though. Reminds me of Peggy in a lot of ways."

"Oh yeah?" Bruce asked gently, keeping his voice carefully neutral. Although Steve would willingly discuss the people from his old life, it was rare for him to have such a dreamy, far-away look of nostalgia on his face.

"Mm-hmm. Independent, resourceful, took no nonsense from anyone, always in control...I knew a couple of WASPs who were the same way. I think it was more common than people realize, honestly. I mean, there was sexism, of course, but it was the war; we needed workers, in the factories and things, and a lot of girls realized they really could have it all. They didn't have to pick between being feminine or ladylike and being tough; they could do either, whichever they wanted, or they could do both, too. And a lot of them did."

Steve sighed softly. "I still miss her. I miss the way nobody could intimidate her, she was so confident; how she could be so gentle without it ever making her seem weak; the little way her jaw twitched when she got angry… She had one hell of a right hook, too," he added, grinning broadly at Bruce, who smiled back.

"I mean, I don't think of Pepper that way, of course," Steve continued. "I just meant, she has a lot of the things that made me like Peggy, as a person, as a friend. They have a lot in common, I think they would have been friends."

"They both had to babysit problematic Stark men, too," Bruce quipped, drawing another hearty laugh from Steve, who shoved the smaller man playfully, changing his mind halfway through and burying his hand in Bruce's hair instead to pull him in for a swift peck on the lips.

When their lips parted, they stared at each other for a long moment, their faces barely inches apart.

"What makes you like us?" Bruce whispered.

"How do you mean?" A crease appeared between Steve's eyes.

"Tony and me. What do you see in _us_? All those things you said, about Peggy, about the things that made you love her. We have pretty much none of those things. Tony's resourceful, maybe, but the rest of it…"

Bruce shook his head gently to warn Steve off interrupting. "We're not independent, or in-control, or confident or tough or any of the other things you fell in love with. Tony puts up a good facade, but his attitude's just a front, you know that as well as I do; in reality, he's got the self-esteem of a bullied high-schooler. We're two of the most broken, damaged people you've ever met, and some days I really can't understand why you would want to deal with **_either_** of us. Much less both."

He sighed and looked down. "When I hear you talk about Peggy that way, and the amazing person she was…it makes it hard for me to think of reasons you could want us."

A strong hand gripped his chin firmly, raising his face. He reluctantly looked back up into sincere blue eyes.

"Bruce. You and Tony are two of the most beautiful people I have ever met. No, look at me. I mean it. After everything you've been through, all the wrong in your pasts, you still have hope, you still have the will to fight and work to save people and make their lives better. Do you have any idea how rare that is? I love you, Bruce. Both of you. The demons in your past are just proof of what you've overcome, proof of how _strong_ you are."

Bruce leaned forward to close the inches between them, trying to put all the love and gratitude he couldn't find words for into the kiss. Steve must have felt at least some of what he was trying to communicate, though; he responded with intensity, leaning into the kiss. He wrapped his free arm around the smaller man's torso, pulling Bruce down on top of him as he leaned back on the couch. Slipping his tongue briefly between the doctor's lips was rewarded by a low growl of want. Bruce untangled his arms from between them to encircle Steve's shoulders. The kiss deepened, slow but thorough, until they could taste each other's hunger, breathing together as their tongues entangled.

They lay together for a long time, basking in the sensation of the scent of each others' skin and the soft noises the other made, working their lips gently together in slow, lazy deep kisses. As Bruce slipped his hand beneath Steve's shirt, sliding back up across his chest, a loud cough broke their reverie, making the two men jump, and Bruce whip his hand back as he shot upright.

Tony stood behind the couch, arms folded, making an impressive attempt to look annoyed.

"You boys know you're breaking TWO house rules here, right?"

Bruce groaned, collapsing back forward onto Steve, who was blushing bright red.

Tony strode around to the front of the couch as he continued, moving like a cat circling its prey. "First, getting it on in a public setting. Very unprofessional, gentlemen; Nick would be _apoplectic_."

"Second," he sat down primly on the far side of the couch, folding one ankle up on the other knee, "I'm pretty sure that if you two don't invite me when you get freaky, it technically counts as cheating. Which I believe entitles me to some sort of…penalty?"

"That first rule, the one about no public sex…that one of Pepper's?" Steve stammered, his blush deepening.

"Forget about that, what does he mean, penalty?" Bruce muttered without raising his head.

"Firstly, yes, I can neither confirm nor deny that Miss Potts may or may not have spent upwards of half an hour lecturing me on the various ways I am not allowed to, let's say, creatively explore the limits of Fury's patience. Or she said I'd be grounded. Well, not exactly; what she _actually_ said was a lot scarier. She even gave me a list, fucking in public was number seventeen. Secondly, take your pants off."

"What?!" Bruce yelped.

"You heard me. Both of you. No, wait—one at a time. Steve first."

"What the hell happened to not screwing in public?"

"Hmm. Excellent point. JARVIS, lock down the break room on Level 9. I want the room in full quarantine, disable all cameras and security systems, and dim the lights to 60%. Cute blush, by the way, el Capitan, since when are you bashful about sex?"

"Since I accidentally started nearly having it in public," Steve mumbled, shamefaced. "I'm not embarrassed about having…needs, I just can't believe we got so carried away. I'm not an exhibitionist, Tony, and you can make all the jokes you want, but I've got a responsibility to conduct myself properly as the leader of this team! Anybody could have walked in and seen us, we were really lucky it was you!"

"Well, if it makes you feel better, luck had nothing to do with it. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. moved into the tower, JARVIS has standing orders to alert me to any hanky-panky happening outside of anybody's personal quarters, so it wasn't really chance that I caught you two. Besides, it's all taken care of now, nobody's got any access to this room until I release the security lock. The President himself couldn't get through that door. Enough stalling, pants off. You two owe me for sneaking around behind my back."

"We weren't sneaking, it's not like we came down here to fuck, we just got carried away; and besides, you're spying on us, so it all cancels out," Steve grumbled, standing; but his heart wasn't in it. He couldn't stay properly angry when Tony looked so pleased with his own cleverness. Besides, between what he and Bruce had been up to and the excitement of not knowing what Tony had planned, he was half-hard already; Tony might be insufferable, but he was also experienced, and Steve had never been disappointed by going along with one of his sexcapades.

He swiftly undid his belt and the front of his jeans, and was starting to shimmy them off when Tony started complaining again.

"No no no no no! That's way too fast. Stop right there. Just—just stop for a second. No, leave the front open, just…let me think. Okay. Just do **_exactly_** what I tell you, when I tell you, okay? Good. Now. Toe off your shoes, one at a time."

Steve obeyed Tony's instructions to the letter, staring at the floor, his face practically glowing; his shoes discarded, the smirking scientist began talking his jeans to the floor. "Slowly, now. Slide them down over your hips—yeah, just like that. No, no, bend, from the waist, not the knees; that's better."

The tense atmosphere made Steve's every sense heightened, and the feel of the rough denim as it brushed slowly around his ass and groin was agonizing on his growing erection. He snuck a glance at Bruce, pleased to see that he was just as affected, shifting nervously on the couch and following Steve's every motion with his eyes. He straightened back up, meeting Tony's eyes squarely and awaiting the next instruction.

He didn't wait long. "Bruce, you're up. I want you to stand up and walk over next to Steve."

Bruce swallowed apprehensively as he complied, crossing the few feet between them cautiously, then looking over his shoulder at Tony. "Okay, now what?"

"Shhh, no talking. Strip his shirt off, but **very** slowly, and stand to one side while you do it, you're blocking my view." Tony was making no attempt to conceal his arousal; he palmed his crotch over his jeans with one hand as he watched Bruce undress Steve, dragging his eyes over both men, lingering on the very visible bulge in the front of Steve's briefs.

Bruce dropped the t-shirt onto the floor by his feet, turning to face Tony as Steve had to await his next command.

"Touch him. Just your hand, put your palm flat on his chest." Bruce felt Steve shiver with anticipation as he complied. "Good, that's good…now, your other hand, around his hip. Slide it down a few inches; a little further; no, underneath the band of his briefs. There you go. Push them down lower on his hip, just an inch or two; perfect. Leave your hand right there."

Tony licked his lips and leaned forward, unfolding his legs and rubbing his crotch with his hand as he readjusted on the couch. "Now, Bruce, I want you to lean forward, kiss his front, right above his belly button. That's good, yeah. Now a little higher, trail your lips across his skin. Keep going. Steve, don't you dare, keep your arms by your sides." The soldier twitched in frustration, muscles in his huge arms tensing as his fists clenched with the effort of remaining stationary, every instinct screaming to grab hold of the man in front of him. "Bruce, keep going, I said, right up to the nipple. Oh yeah. _Oh _yeah. Use your tongue, tease him with it."

Tony was thrusting gently up into his hand now as Bruce left a slick, wet trail up Steve's chest, pink tongue visible as he licked and sucked Steve's nipple, making small, weak noises of want. The captain's jaw was clenched, his eyes screwed shut in frustration, knuckles white; the front of Bruce's slacks was now visibly tented. Tony abruptly decided to throw on the brakes before one or all of them blew early and ruined his fun.

"Stop, stop, stopstopstop. Okay, Bruce, take a step back and let's see that shirt come off. One button at a time, and turn around so I can see you. Steve, don't move."

A heated flush was beginning on Bruce's chest, revealed as he opened the front of his shirt; he was smiling now, any hint of anxiety gone. "Are you going to be joining us any time soon?" he teased, ignoring the strangled noise Steve made as he slid the purple silk back over his shoulders slowly, doing his best to tantalize.

"I was thinking I'd just watch. And direct. My very own 3-D porno, starring my two favorite people." Tony was trying for flippant, but the obvious arousal in his voice made it fall flat. "Shoes off, now, and Steve, have a seat. No, not on the couch, grab one of the chairs from the lunch tables over there."

Steve complied with obvious relief, clearly thrilled to be doing something other than standing perfectly still to be petted. He returned with the chair and sat just as Bruce managed to get his second shoe off.

"Okay. Good." Tony was breathing a little faster now, rubbing his cock through his jeans again, in slow, controlled circles. "Bruce, I want you to kneel down between his legs—but, and this is **very** important, DO NOT touch him. Got it? No contact."

Steve spread his legs wider apart to make room, groaning audibly as he looked down at the mess of curls between his thighs, so desperately, _agonizingly_ close, and yet the few inches might as well be miles. Tony licked his lips, watching Steve squirm with every ghost that trailed along his inner thigh each time Bruce breathed out. "No hands, now, you two. Steve, grab the chair if you have to, but keep your hands to yourself."

He took a deep, shuddering breath, getting a hold of himself before issuing the next command. "Okay. Bruce. Very gently, I want you to touch your lips to the inside of Steve's thigh. No kissing or anything, just very, very light contact." Steve gave another, louder moan as Bruce complied, his whole body going rigid with the effort of not bucking his hips forward into the touch.

Tony couldn't resist any longer; he unbuttoned his jeans and slipped his hand inside, gripping his cock. He kept issuing orders as he worked himself slowly, his voice coming out less and less controlled. "Now…a little harder…yeah, that's right. Just—okay—keep going, move up a little. Go a little harder; that's right, yeah. Leave a mark. Oh god yeah."

Steve was clenching the legs of his chair fiercely, eyes shut and mouth hanging slack as Bruce worked his way up his thigh, a tiny dark bruise already starting to blossom at the latest site to receive his attentions. He moaned again wantonly as Tony sent Bruce further and further up his leg, to mouth against his aching hard-on through his cotton briefs.

Tony was barely able to speak; his plan to 'punish' Bruce and Steve had backfired as he'd teased himself nearly to the brink, but he managed to choke out one last instruction: "Pull him out and—and suck him, hard…"

Bruce obeyed with enthusiasm, ripping Steve's underwear down to free his erection and taking in his whole cock in one swift movement. Steve lost it, forgetting Tony's instructions entirely and burying one hand at the back of Bruce's head, gripping his shoulder tight with the other. Tony raised no objection, though, jerking himself off roughly as he watched Bruce do the same, even while he deep-throated Steve. He seemed to be struggling a little, the captain's considerable length more than he could take comfortably, but continued unflinching; he appeared bent on swallowing Steve whole if it killed him.

Steve, overstimulated, came first, throwing Bruce backwards off his dick just in time before he climaxed, spraying his cum onto the scientist's tan face instead of choking him with it. He manhandled the smaller man, still mewling, up onto his lap, bracing him with one hand and wrapping the other around Bruce's fist to help him work his cock. Bruce angled his hips up, grunting as he fucked into their hands haphazardly until he came in hard spurts, his free hand gripping the back of Steve's neck to press their foreheads together.

They sat breathless for barely a moment before Bruce realized they'd forgotten something. He heaved himself up off Steve's lap with a satisfied smile, wiping his eyes clear, before leading the way to where Tony still lay, beyond anything resembling composure, with his eyes screwed shut, wanking himself frantically in irregular strokes.

"Tony, Tony, it's okay," Bruce whispered soothingly, gripping Tony's hands gently to pin them on the couch cushion on either side of his hips. Tony opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. "Shhh, it's okay, just let us."

Steve slid smoothly past Bruce onto the couch, cradling Tony's shoulders with one arm, the other flat on his stomach. He leaned in to kiss Tony lovingly as Bruce took over down below, smearing the cum from his face onto Tony's tender, irritated cock and beginning to stroke him with slow, lazy movements.

Tony moaned gently into Steve's mouth, completely undone, reduced to a limp, needy bundle of nerves desperate for relief. Bruce toyed with the idea of leaving him in suspense, but discarded it as needlessly cruel; he leaned down to lick a slow stripe from the base of the hot, swollen member down to the tip, which he teased sweetly, toying with it with his tongue and lips until Tony was finally pushed over the edge and covered Bruce's face with a second blast of cum.

Now relaxed, Tony took back control of the kiss, nudging Steve further along the couch to give Bruce room to cuddle up on Tony's other side, after wiping his face clean on Steve's discarded shirt. Bruce laughed softly as he stroked Tony's hair, ruffling the top of his head fondly.

"Now, what have we learned today?" Bruce asked, lipping at Tony's neck. Tony shrugged and burrowed deeper into Steve, exploring his mouth. Steve grinned and pulled away; Tony growled.

"Come on, Tony, don't be rude," Steve taunted good-naturedly, grinning over Tony's head at Bruce. "What did you learn?"

"That I should just tell JARVIS to spray you with water like cats when you get horny instead of handling it myself."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "What else?"

"Nothing," Tony sulked. "I don't learn lessons, I'm a supergenius."

"How about not to start what you can't finish?" Steve suggested, laughing. "Or not to bite off more than you can chew? Or not to get in over your head?"

Tony growled wordlessly again, glaring at his tormenters, before heaving a deep sigh and flopping back onto the couch in surrender. "Follow Pepper's stupid rules, and I don't own either of you so being a dick and trying to control what you do will always end badly."

He was rewarded by Steve pulling him in for more kisses, while Bruce nuzzled the back of his head and whispered lovingly into his ear.

"You don't have to get jealous over Steve and me spending time together, Tony. We need you, both of us, just as much as we need each other, and we're not going to abandon you just because we spent some time together without you. We're a matched set, the three of us, we're not complete without you."

"I gotta say, though," Steve interjected, pulling back with a grin, "I liked how you got all manly and controlling. Big turn-on, we'll have to do that again sometime."

"Supergenius, remember? I have all sorts of good ideas," Tony bantered back, grinning again, his former swagger back in spades.

"Well, I hope the supergenius has a plan for cleaning up in here and explaining to Fury why the 9th Level break room was in top-security lockdown for half an hour WITHOUT invoking Pepper's wrath," Bruce chuckled.

"Oh, he won't even notice, a full security shutdown by my authorization cuts him out of the loop unless I tell JARVIS to alert him. And I'll have a cleaning crew in here thirty seconds after we leave. So, Steve, if you want to, I don't know, maybe put your pants back on? And we can take this upstairs to the bedroom, see how creative I can get," Tony added with an evil grin.

"I might need a minute or two," Bruce replied good-naturedly, standing to stretch his back. "Maybe twenty, I'm not as young as I used to be."

"I know just the thing!" Tony bounded to his feet, bouncing on his heels.

"You're not as young as you used to be, either, how do you have so much energy? And what did you just do?" Bruce grumbled as Steve laughed and Tony ordered JARVIS to execute some long random-sounding string of numbers and letters. "Steve, what did he just do?"

"No idea," the blonde said, struggling back into his jeans.

"We are having WAFFLES. In bed. Last one to the bedroom has to tell Thor Santa's not real!" And Tony sprinted out of the room, followed by Bruce and Steve (at a much more reasonable pace), wearing identical exasperated smiles.

...

Three hours later, a second cleaning crew had to be called in to unstick Tony from the bedsheets, where he had had an "accident" with about three gallons of maple syrup. Supergenius or not, not every idea was a good one.

...

A/N Sorry the update took so long, this week has been crazy and this one's a little longer than previous chapters. These are turning into a major love letter to Pepper, huh? Somehow I'm not sorry :P Have some smut! p.s. if enough people beg me very prettily and flatter my ego enough, I might be persuaded to release to the public the list Pepper gave Tony of things he's not allowed to do. Just fyi. /blatant cry for attention


	5. Chapt 5: Pepper's List

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

_Found discarded in a corner of Tony Stark's private labs. The paper is crumpled and stained with motor oil in several places, but readable. It is printed on official Stark Industries letterhead with the signature block of the CEO at the bottom, but someone has crossed out the document title and scrawled "Pepper's Stupid Rules" above it in messy handwriting. There is also a doodle in the bottom left hand corner: a stick figure of a woman with messy hair, fangs, and a snake tongue with a speech bubble reading "No fun allowed ever!"_

MEMO: Guidelines for Appropriate Behaviour

RE: Maintaining Romantic Relationships in a Professional Environment

To: Tony Stark

From: Pepper Potts, CEO

Compliance with all items on this list is mandatory, on pain of consequences to be determined after violation at my discretion.

Tony Stark MAY NOT, at any time, under any circumstances:

1. Needle, taunt, nag, tease, annoy, jab, mock, ridicule, badger, harass, aggravate, torment, vex, deride, scoff at, goad, exasperate, insult, or otherwise provoke Director Nick Fury.

2. Needle, taunt, nag, tease, annoy, jab, mock, ridicule, badger, harass, aggravate, torment, vex, deride, scoff at, goad, exasperate, insult, or otherwise provoke Assistant Director Maria Hill.

3. Particularly and especially needle, taunt, nag, tease, annoy, jab, mock, ridicule, badger, harass, aggravate, torment, vex, deride, scoff at, goad, exasperate, insult, or otherwise provoke Special Agent Phil Coulson.

4. Use his positions within Stark Industries and the Avengers Initiative to provide inappropriate special treatment to any/all sexual or romantic partners.

5. Play upon the sympathies of any/all sexual or romantic partners to obtain special treatment; for example, the avoidance of duties and/or responsibilities associated with either of his positions within Stark Industries and the Avengers Initiative.

6. Discard or leave used or unused condoms and/or condom wrappers ANYWHERE other than appropriate waste receptacles.

7. Attempt to use "I forgot" as an excuse for noncompliance with item 6.

8. Attempt at any time to annoy and/or embarrass any other member of Stark Industries, S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers Initiative under the guise of "comparing relationship notes", "wanting relationship advice", or any similar coercion.

9. Attempt to convince any other member of Stark Industries, S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers Initiative currently in a relationship to take up "swinging."

10. Attempt to convince any other member of Stark Industries, S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers Initiative currently in a relationship to participate in any type or form of sexual contest or competition, including but not limited to: strangest sexual activity, strangest sexual location, most creative use of any food item, loudest couple/group during intercourse, and most injuries sustained during intercourse.

11. Attempt to find and utilise any semantic or logical loophole to avoid compliance with the clear intent of item 10.

12. Send out a memo to all unmarried Stark Industries and S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel offering his condolences to them for loss of the opportunity to sleep with him.

13. Play Barry Manilow over the Stark Tower public announcement system to any room other than his private quarters.

14. Attempt to excuse noncompliance with item 13 by saying he was "just trying to set the mood."

15. State or imply that "if Fury just got laid more he wouldn't be so uptight about other people getting some."

16. Release to any public or private parties outside of Stark Industries or S.H.I.E.L.D. any compromising photographs or video of himself or any romantic or sexual partners, even with the partners' consent.

17. Engage in any sexual activities in any public place, where "public" is defined as anywhere there is a halfway decent chance of any human being seeing him.

18. Engage in any sexual activities which at any time become audible to anyone not participating.

19. At any time allow the noise from any sexual activities to be broadcast over the Stark Tower public announcement system, either deliberately or accidentally.

20. Engage in any sexual activities which carry a reasonable expectation of damage to any Stark Industries possessions, including but not limited to furniture, appliances, and buildings, where "reasonable" is defined as me deciding after the fact that he should have seen it coming.

21. Appear in public with less than 50% of his body clothed, where "public" is defined as in item 17 and "clothed" defined as garments designed for external wear—NOT boxers, lingerie or similar private undergarments.

22. Attempt to use recent sexual activity as an excuse for noncompliance with item 21.

23. Attempt to excuse noncompliance with item 21 by arguing he is too attractive for anyone to be offended.

24. Attempt to excuse noncompliance with item 21 by arguing he was too drunk to find his clothing.

25. Continue to disable the security systems on Thor and Jane Foster's shared rooms to allow codenames Hawkeye and Black Widow access for the purpose of practical jokes.

26. Continue to pester Doctor Bruce Banner to allow him to experiment sexually with the Incredible Hulk.

27. Allege, in public, that Captain Steve Rogers' ejaculate is not merely white, but red, white and blue.

28. Attempt intercourse while in the Iron Man suit, in flight.

29. Attempt intercourse anywhere other than either firmly and solidly on the ground, or securely fastened to some manner of safety restraint system leaving absolutely no chance of him or anyone else falling to their death.

30. Seriously, Tony, don't even think about it.

This document is not to be considered a comprehensive and complete list of all forbidden activities. I reserve the right to add and modify items at any time as I deem appropriate.

For God's sake, Tony, just act like a human being for once. Please. You're not five, this stopped being cute a long time ago.

/SIGNED/

Virginia Pepper Potts

CEO, Stark Industries

...

A/N: Nobody really seemed interested, but I wound up writing it anyway for my own amusement, so here it is.


	6. Chapt 6: Bruce Loves Comfort Food

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Bruce's love of comfort food was well-documented about S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. The more perceptive among the group eventually realized that his indulgences, despite being seemingly random cravings, were actually tied to his emotional state. Bruce used food as a coping mechanism; when the stress of the job started to get to him, and he could feel the Hulk starting to stir, anxious to be unleashed, he would gorge himself on comfort food, drowning his stress in nostalgia and gravy until the crisis passed.

Whenever the mood struck, he would simply occupy part of the kitchens, ushering the staff firmly and unyieldingly out of his chosen territory with unfailing politeness and courtesy. He would wall off the borders of his turf by emptying the cupboards and piling whatever pots and pans he wasn't using around the edges of his chosen counter, and then cook up mounds of whatever had struck his fancy: gigantic casserole dishes of baked macaroni and cheese, massive pots of chicken noodle soup, or huge vats of the absolute best damn mashed potatoes you've ever tasted. He would spend the rest of the day, and sometimes several days after, wandering around the tower with generous helpings of his latest concoction in mismatched bowls or plates—once, in a comically oversized novelty Hulk mug that absolutely nobody would admit to buying.

His clear favorite, however, his number one top choice, was peanut butter. In peanut butter sandwiches, sometimes with honey or jam; slathered over apple slices; as Ants on a Log, if he was feeling youthful; or even just straight from the jar with a spoon. The sight of the disheveled scientist soon became familiar to all: distracted, up to his ears in lab equipment, with the jar at his elbow, peanut butter smeared haphazardly across his cheek or chin, and the spoon hanging forgotten from his mouth.

Neither Tony Stark nor Steve Rogers, however, had any such habit, so when Natasha Romanoff noticed a faint aroma of peanuts around them both, and even what looked like a small smudge of peanut butter behind Tony's ear, she wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. Her initial assumption seemed a little…inappropriate, so she decided to broach the subject with Clint; tell him just her observations, see if he drew the same conclusions. As it turns out, he responded by panicking, clapping his hands over his ears and going "_LA LA LA LA LA_" as loud as he could while running out of the room, refusing to make eye contact with Tony, Bruce or Steve for the rest of the day, and whimpering about "needing brain bleach."

She decided her first instinct was probably pretty accurate, and decided not to pursue it any further. As it turned out, her guess was exactly right.

...

Steve moaned, head thrown back hard against the pillow. He'd had trepidations when he and Tony first discussed approaching Bruce about his anger management strategies, in the weeks immediately following the movie into Stark Towers. For the doctor, being around other people, specifically people who knew about his 'condition,' and feeling constantly under scrutiny had been…unnerving, to say the least.

He had still been feeling his way around the 'Team Leader' job. Steve was great during wartime, but that was all he was used to; and when the team split up to go their separate ways after the Battle of Midtown, he'd thought he wouldn't have to figure out how to lead them in peace, in time of calm. Then Tony had started rounding them all up again, with that childish glee at having the shiny brand-new Tower headquarters all ready, and how could Steve say no?

It was long before they had started to notice any attraction to each other, but Bruce was one of Steve's team and he was Tony's best friend, so it was natural for the two of them to both notice how uncomfortable Bruce had been. He'd been constantly on edge, jumpy and twitchy. Steve had broached the subject with Tony first, and when his suspicions were confirmed, they went together to ask Bruce about it. It had been Tony's idea to give Bruce full access to the kitchens, both so he could get as much of his beloved comfort food as he wanted whenever he wanted it, and so he had another 'safe zone' outside of his labs and living quarters—giving him a little more variety, a wider range so he wouldn't feel isolated or sequestered.

Once they started dating, he had also had some hesitation about Tony's "no seriously you guys, this is gonna be brilliant, best idea I've ever had" proposal, but for the life of him he couldn't remember any of the reasons he had been so reluctant right now, not with a dark-haired head attending to each nipple, working across his chest.

Steve voiced another long moan in his mellow baritone as Bruce flicked his tongue over the tip of his nipple. He clenched the headboard of the bed, tipping his head back to bare his throat. Tony pulled away with a wicked grin, only to grab at the jar on the bedstand with sticky hands, digging out a fingerful of the savory paste to slather over the tip on Steve's chest, circling around the nub, teasing and pinching it with his fingers before passing the jar over to Bruce.

The rough friction of the peanut butter provided a delicious contrast with Tony's soft tongue as his head bobbed back down to trail along Steve's chest, licking up the first layer of the peanut butter before latching onto his nipple again, nipping it with his teeth before suckling it in earnest, working the fold of skin on the hardened tip with his tongue. On his other side, Bruce was working his way downward, smearing a line of peanut butter straight down from Steve's nipple across his perfect abs to the V of his hip and then following it with his tongue, thoroughly and meticulously cleaning Steve's pale skin, inch by inch with agonizing slowness.

When Bruce _finally_ reached the curve of Steve's hip, the sharp bite he nipped into the tender skin stretched over the broad pelvic bone was timed perfectly (although probably accidentally) with a particularly aggressive draw from Tony, sucking down hard on his nipple. The sudden intense double sensation made Steve buck his hips up violently, nearly throwing Bruce sideways off the bed. Bruce grinned as he grabbed Steve's hip to regain his balance, then pulled the loose sweatpants down to blonde's thighs to bare his erection. He licked his lips as he lathered the fingers of his right hand with peanut butter from the jar, spreading it in slow, measured circles around the base of Steve's cock.

Tony switched nipples as Bruce leaned in, licking and sucking the peanut butter off Steve's groin with the same painfully slow and erotic movements he had used on his chest and stomach. He traced measured circles through the soft, fluffy hair of Steve's groin before trailing his tongue deliberately along the perineum and up in a thick wet stripe along the underside of his rock-hard cock. Tony growled when Steve bucked up again, nearly throwing him and Bruce both off the bed this time, and abandoned his aching nipples in favor of throwing one leg over his body, straddling his torso to pin him to the bed.

A big fingerful of peanut butter went into Tony's mouth from the jar Bruce had discarded before he dove forward, capturing Steve's mouth in a passionate kiss, wrapping their tongues together. He kept teasing Steve's nipples with his thumbs as he plundered his mouth, Bruce behind him working the larger man's cock masterfully. Bruce teased and tantalized him, bringing him to the brink of coming over and over then backing off, cooling him down. This went on for what seemed to Steve like ages, until he was so swept up and carried away by sensation that when Bruce finally took him, swallowing his whole length, he came instantly and violently, his whole body jerking forward. Bruce and Tony tumbled off the bed as a massive **_CRACK_** split the air.

Steve sat motionless in the center of the bed, the flush of completion fading to leave a stunned and sheepish look on his open face. He still clutched the bits of wood from where he had been gripping the headboard. Tony looked up over the edge of the bed, and began cackling maniacally when he realized what happened; Bruce joined in the laughter, hauling himself up onto the bed to hug Steve lovingly, muffling his gasps of laughter in Steve's shoulder.

"I guess I forgot to let go," he said guiltily, craning his neck to look round at the damage to the headboard. It was obviously completely beyond repair; the wood was twisted and splintered, the pillows beneath covered in small chips and sawdust.

"Seems you don't know your own strength," Tony smirked, dragging himself onto the bed as well.

"I guess not, huh." Steve chuckled, reassured. "Looks like we need a new bed."

"Something…sturdy. Sturdier. Metal frame, maybe. Then we can handcuff Bruce to it, blindfold him, and feed him all the peanut butter we want," Tony quipped.

"Very funny," Bruce said sarcastically, extricating himself from Steve. "You know, I would never have told you guys about my love of peanut butter if I had known Tony would suggest I eat it off his dick."

"Eh, you know you love it." Tony flopped down into Steve's vacated lap. "It's _comfort food_, remember?"

"Hey, don't knock it." Bruce nudged him with his foot, scowling. "Frankly, I would have thought you'd be a fan of anything that helps me keep the Other Guy under control. I have a hard enough time as it is, caged with a bunch of agents in the middle of a packed city, I don't need you making fun of me," he muttered darkly.

"He wasn't making fun of you," Steve said consolingly. "Were you, Tony?"

" 'Course not," Tony mumbled. "I am a fan, I was just teasing."

"Comfort food is good for you," Bruce said, kicking Tony again. "It's balm for the soul, everyone knows that. Besides, peanut butter is delicious."

"Can't argue with that," Tony was grinning again, spooning a glob into his mouth. "But can we seriously talk about how Steve is the only one who finished? I mean, really, does that seem unfair to anybody else? Anyone?"

Steve rolled his eyes and levered Tony off the bed. He landed with a thump and a loud "Hey!", bounding back upright indignantly, before sauntering over to the side cabinet as though that was his intention from the beginning. He reached inside to grab a glass and crystal decanter, pouring himself a generous helping of the amber liquid inside.

"Really, Tony?" Bruce raised his eyebrows, scowling.

"What, I can't have a nightcap?"

"It's three in the afternoon!"

Tony rolled his eyes, tossing back the whiskey in a smooth, practiced motion before darting back over to the bed. He dive-tackled Steve, who rolled with it, pinning Tony beneath him. Steve leaned in, kissing Tony in a deep, slow, thorough movement that left him panting, unraveled and rock-hard. Tony mewled with need as Steve pulled back, keeping him pressed down on the mattress with one broad hand.

The friction against his silk boxers drew a keening cry from Tony as Steve repositioned, folding Tony's leg up over his shoulder. Tony squirmed and struggled when Steve began rolling up against his ass. Steve's bicep flexed with the effort of keeping Tony in one place as he rutted up against him; he started growling filth, filling the air between them with an obscene string of details of exactly what he wanted to do with Tony.

Bruce slipped a hand inside his shorts, stroking himself slowly. Steve's sweatpants were still down around his thighs, leaving Bruce with a perfect view of his bare ass. The captain grunted, redoubling his efforts, snapping his hips roughly, fucking Tony through the thin fabric. His thighs spread apart as he worked, straining the band of his sweatpants and granting Bruce the sight of his hole, red and puckered.

Bruce's breath hitched. He started building up rhythm slowly, fucking into his fist as he watched Steve's thighs and ass flex, stretching the ring of muscles tight. After a few minutes spent watching Steve move and letting the pressure build, listening to Tony's begging dissolve into wordless whining, he couldn't take it anymore.

His cock already slick from precome, he crawled forward, positioning himself carefully behind Steve, bracing himself with a firm hand on each side of Steve's hips. He thrust forward, burying himself in Steve's wet heat in one swift movement. The sudden pressure made Steve shout in alarm and grab desperately behind him with his free hand, clutching Bruce tight to stop him from pulling back out.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean, I just—"

"It's okay, babe, it's okay!" Steve cut him off. "You just—took me by surprise, it's good, don't—oh my GOD, Tony, gonna fuck you so hard you fucking break in half—don't stop, Bruce, it's perfect, you feel so fucking good inside me."

Bruce smiled, resting his forehead on the back of Steve's neck for a moment before pulling halfway out and slamming back in as hard as he could. Steve relaxed, letting Bruce set the tempo, shoving him forward into Tony over and over again. Bruce thought idly that the serum must give Steve the stamina of a teen; he was already fully erect again, working back and forth through the cleft of Tony's ass.

Tony finally broke down. He slapped Steve's hand off his chest, throwing himself forward to grab Steve's head. With one hand clenched tight on each side of the back of Steve's skull, he bellowed a final plea inches away from his face: "**_PLEASE!_**" before collapsing boneless on the bed.

Steve yanked the red silk down over the round of Tony's ass, pushing Tony's other knee to join its fellow on his shoulders. With the inventor bent nearly in half, clutching the sheets and sobbing with desire, Steve spared a few moments for preparation, scissoring Tony open as gently as he could stand, before he guided Tony down onto his length. Bruce kept rocking them back and forth, fucking Steve forward into Tony again and again, until Steve—already spent—came a second time, filling Tony and collapsing forward onto him, enveloping him in his strong arms.

He sucked and kissed Tony's neck, the corner of his jaw, before licking at his earlobe and pulling it into his mouth. The scrape of teeth along the sensitive skin drove Tony over the edge, and he unloaded between them, wrapping his arms around Steve's neck, clinging to him with urgent, desperate need.

Bruce slowed his pace, rolling his hips forward lazily as he pushed himself gently back and forth through Steve's hole, now clenched tight again. He slowly but surely brought himself up past the brink, coming silently into Steve then rolling off to the side, allowing the captain up.

Steve stayed on his side, smiling at both of them with windblown hair and tired, lazy eyes as Tony stretched back out to a more human shape. Bruce sighed contentedly before suddenly raising his head, looking around for something. "Hey, guys, where'd the peanut butter jar end up?"

Steve murmured sleepily, "Come on, you can't possibly still be stressed after all that."

"I'm not stressed, I'm hungry. Peanut butter is delicious, Steve, we went over this. I know the fast pace of the modern world is confusing, but you've got to try to keep up." Bruce threw a saucy wink back over his shoulder.

Tony started to laugh helplessly as Steve tried to feign annoyance. "Oh, shut up," he said, swatting Tony. "You're a bad influence on him." But he still dragged himself upright with a groan to help Bruce locate the missing half-empty jar.

...

A/N: Ants on a Log is a snack food I used to love when I was a kid. It's celery stalks, filled with peanut butter, with raisins stuck to the peanut butter. It's delicious.


	7. Chapt 7: Steve Encounters Homophobia

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

/WARNING/ A/N: Trigger warnings for: homophobia, racism, alcoholism, religion, and blood

...

Chapter 7: In Which Steve Rogers Has His First Encounter With 21st Century Homophobia

It begins with something small.

It's summer. They have been 'out' in S.H.I.E.L.D. for about two months.

It is a beautiful Sunday; the sun is shining, a small breeze is blowing, and Bruce is feeling good. He feels calm, relaxed, in control, so they go for a walk.

They wind up going down to Central Park, where they wander, smiling. They feed the ducks. They look at trees. They smell the air, cleanest in the city, and turn their faces up to the sun.

It's a hot day, so they buy ice cream cones from a small stand nearby. Bruce, the messy eater, winds up with a smudge of vanilla on the corner of mouth, and Steve, without thinking, takes his chin in one hand and kisses his lip clean.

Tony pretends to be jealous, demanding a kiss from each of them in turn, all very chaste and sweet, and they all three giggle and smile and wander off under the sunshine holding hands.

They do not notice the kid on a park bench nearby, who has been recording them on a smartphone for several minutes.

By dinnertime, the kid has uploaded the video on YouTube and shared it on Reddit.

By midnight, the video has gone viral, with over 2 million hits and counting.

By 6AM, the story has hit the mainstream media, and dominates the morning news.

By 6:30AM, Pepper Potts has an injunction filed and six lawsuits pending and has YouTube bending over backwards to purge the video from its site, but it's already too late. The video has been downloaded and shared countless times in untraceable ways, and cannot be recaptured.

By noon, Stark Towers has been besieged by phone calls ranging from obscene to supportive to anxious to rabidly and viciously hateful. The email server has crashed under the influx of messages.

By 2PM, Nick Fury has had two separate shouting matches with members of the Council, who want S.H.I.E.L.D. to deny any controversial "intimate" relationship, because they believe it will "bring discredit upon the Institute" to have half the Avengers Initiative comprised of gays. He firmly informs them that it is none of their motherfuckin' business and he will handle the situation however the FUCK he feels appropriate, unless they intend on coming out of the shadows and actually sticking their necks out for once. He then tells the assembled Council to stuff it, and that he won't let his team be ashamed of who they are. Pepper approves.

She, Fury (who is officially back in her good graces), Hill, and Coulson conspire to keep the Avengers team insulated from the controversy and as much in the dark as possible. They only succeed in four out of six cases, but since Natasha and Clint heartily approve of their efforts, that doesn't become a problem.

It's easier than they would have thought. They distract Jane with physics and then distract Thor with Jane. Bruce self-insulates anyway, so they just clean up any scraps he might trip over. Tony, who is fairly oblivious to most social and political news, nonetheless likes to feed his ego by Googling himself; they lay a false trail of backhanded insulting compliments on his dress sense for him to obsess over. Steve, surprisingly, is the hardest to deal with, since he recently figured out how to turn on the Internet all by himself; they put a strict filter on every device he touches, blacking out any news story, article or webpage that mentions the budding war over a series of innocent touches.

They make it to Tuesday before the levee breaks.

Around lunchtime, Steve happened to look out the window on the Level 27 break room. He was surprised to see a large crowd on the sidewalk in front of Stark Tower, ringed by police lines and holding brightly-coloured signs, none of which he could read from that distance. With characteristic optimism and good nature, he assumed it must be some sort of rally or benefit, and went down to say hello.

Pepper, who had installed herself in the tower temporarily to oversee the information blackout, realized exactly two minutes too late what had happened. She ran, full sprint, eyes wide and hair pulling loose, and burst disheveled from the main door to see Steve standing in the center of the sidewalk in front of the half-ring of chanting, jeering protesters, fists clenched and shoulders rigid.

He was staring, horror and hurt transfixed on his face. Pepper took his arm, pulling gently, trying to turn him around to walk him back into the building.

"Steve, come on. Come with me. It's okay, just don't look at them, don't talk to them, don't make eye contact, just come on back inside, okay? Steve?"

His voice was strained. "What… What is this?" He took a half-step forward, pulling his arm away. "Does Fury know about this?"

Pepper tried again, catching hold of his rolled flannel sleeve. "Just come on inside, we'll talk about it there, okay?"

His jaw clenched, and he spat out the query: "I said, does Fury know."

Pepper hesitated, answering him falteringly. "Yes…yes, he knows. They're on public property, Steve, as long as they don't break the law we can't make them leave. Just ignore them."

The noise he made would have sounded like a laugh, if it weren't for the bitter, twisted look on his face. "Ignore them? **_Ignore_** them? Ignore **_this_**?!" He swept his arm around, gesturing to the mob. " 'God hates fags'? 'Fag heroes burn in Hell'? 'Thank God for dead soldiers'?"

"They're crazy, Steve, they're just crazy fanatics—"

"They've got _KIDS_ with them! Kids, chanting about how they want faggots to die and praying for more dead soldiers! Pepper, this is **_sick_**!"

"I know, Steve, honey, I know it is, let's just go inside and we'll talk about it there—"

"Look, they've got a banner saying it would have been better to let America burn than for it to be saved by fags—are they serious?! Do they know how many people would have died if we hadn't—Pepper, what **_is_** this?"

She sighed, bracing herself. "They're called the Westboro Baptist Church, and they're a hate group masquerading as a Christian organization. They—"

"**_CHRISTIAN?! _**They're a **_CHURCH?!_**" He cut her off. "These people call themselves **_Christians_**? What about 'love thy neighbour'? What about 'do unto others'? What about kindness and sacrifice, this isn't Christianity, this is insane—"

"I know, I know, Steve, I know it is, okay, but there's nothing we can do about them right now, they're not breaking any laws, and the downside to free speech is that lunatics have the same rights as everyone else, right?" When she took his arm this time, he let her turn him around. The hoots and screaming from the crowd doubled when he started to retreat, but he did not resist as she lead him back towards the building.

When the rock hit the back of his shoulder, she tightened her grip desperately, digging her nails into his bicep; but he only halted for a short moment, gritting his teeth, and did not turn around. Behind them, a riot began.

Natasha ran up as they came in through the door. "Jesus, Steve, are you okay? It's getting ugly out there…"

Pepper gave her a wan smile. "One of them hit him with a rock. I think the police probably aren't having much luck arresting the culprit. We'd better go into lockdown on the first three floors, just in case things get violent. MORE violent."

Natasha nodded solemnly. "I'll take care of it." She cast one last worried glance at Steve before striding off purposefully, issuing low orders into her earpiece.

"Thank you," Pepper called after her. "Now, Steve, why don't we just—"

"How long?"

He wouldn't look at her.

"I want an answer, Pepper. How long have they been out there?"

She wavered, but settled on coming clean. "Yesterday afternoon. Someone took a recording of your date on Sunday, they got you guys on camera kissing and put it up on the internet. It hit the news yesterday morning."

There was danger in the lower octaves of his voice. "And you hid it from me?"

She braced herself again. "Yes. From Bruce and Tony, too. We've been trying to do damage control, and we knew how much all of this would hurt you, so we thought the longer before you found out, the better."

"Who's 'we'?" He stared resolutely at the wall, jaw working.

"Director Fury and myself." She came around in front of him, searching his face for some clue to his intentions, and continued in a pleading tone: "Steve, I don't want you to worry about this, okay? I know you take your responsibilities very seriously, but this isn't Avengers business, this is public relations and politics, and we're going to handle all of this stuff. Those guys out there, they're a deranged minority, we've had ten times as many emails and phone calls from people who support you being yourselves and going public, so please just don't—"

He brushed past her, stopping a few feet away to wrestle with himself before saying over his shoulder without looking back: "I need some time alone. Please, don't come looking for me. Just…just don't."

He marched out of the room, his shoulders a taut line as she watched him go, the riot turning bloody outside.

...

"How is he?"

"Angry. And devastated. He's still so idealistic after all he's been through, seeing Americans—his own people—acting that way… He asked me to leave him alone, and I wasn't going to push it. Natasha told you what happened?"

"With the rock? Of course. I heard they attacked the cops for trying to arrest the guy who threw it. Can't say I'm too broken up about it. Those freaks deserve prison, and maybe it'll even thin the herd, get some of the worst crazies out of our hair. Well, such as it is." He rubbed his smooth head pensively.

"They aren't so different from the way you reacted. Just a little more extreme."

"Don't be ridiculous. My objections were purely professional. Besides, I can't have just anyone abusing my team. That's my job."

"Fair enough. And hey, we might even have the chance to turn it around on their organization. That's how they make their money, you know, they provoke people into attacking them and then sue. I'm pretty sure we got the whole thing on camera, so Stark Industries' legal team has a pretty decent chance of bankrupting them."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmm hmm! We'll take 'em to the cleaners."

"Good."

They stood in silence a while.

"You think he'll be okay?"

"Steve? I'm sure he will. He'll get the betrayal out of his system, and then he'll bounce right back up in a day or two with some Wonder Boy plan to save the world through kindness, fluffy kittens and Nazi punching, you wait and see."

"You really think so?"

"We're talking about a man who not only honestly believes that 'because it's the right thing to do' is enough of a motivation to do _anything_, but assumes that everyone else thinks the same way. Remember the anti-littering PSA he did? On his own, for _fun_, after Tony showed him how the webcam works? He'll be fine."

"Good. He's a good man, I'd hate to think something like this would be the thing that breaks him."

The redhead glanced sidelong at the somber man beside her. "What makes you so sure something will?"

He sighed. "In my experience, Miss Potts, everyone has a breaking point. It's just most people, the kinds of lives they lead, don't ever have to reach theirs. But this business, what we do…this is a killing job. No exceptions. It's why so few of us ever…form attachments. Outside of the life, I mean; lovers, or even just friends. Whether it's your life or your spirit, something always ends up broken. Just my experience." He turned to walk away.

"Good afternoon, Miss Potts."

"Afternoon, Director."

He left her standing in the slanting sunlight, thinking.

...

Steve was on his fourth punching bag when Tony came down to find him, just half an hour after his discovery.

"How's it goin', champ?"

"Not now, Tony." Steve paused his furious barrage, holding the bag steady.

"I heard you had a little bit of a run-in with our friends downstairs."

"Heard from who?" Steve threw a couple of quick jabs.

"JARVIS. Obviously. He's been keeping an eye on the situation for me since they showed up yesterday."

Steve turned around to glare at Tony. "You knew about them?"

"Of course I knew. I know everything that goes on in this tower. Pep tried to keep me in the dark too, some phony redirect software. As if. If she really thought I'd buy that many people being offended by my choice in cummerbund…"

Steve gritted his teeth. "And Bruce?"

"Huh?"

"Did Bruce know, too?"

"Well, yeah. He figured it out. This may come as a shock, but he's actually quite intelligent." Tony tripped over the discarded shreds of one of the ruined punching bags. "Why do you think he's been holed up in that lab since Monday morning? Won't talk to anyone other than us; he didn't even come to bed last night. He's gone through three full jars of peanut butter."

"So I'm the only one left in the dark. You've all just been laughing at me, treating me like a child."

"Um, no, that was Pepper and the angry pirate. I just went along with it. I'm sure they meant well. Probably. Trying to protect us, or something."

"By _lying_ to me? I can handle it, Tony!"

"Yeah, right, 'cause you 'handled it' so well a minute ago."

Steve gave the punching bag a vicious right hook. "I think I did pretty damn well under the circumstances. They were throwing things at me, I didn't even react."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I think about 60 people got pepper sprayed in the riot afterwards," Tony slurred, tripping over the folding chair as he tried to sit down.

Steve stared at him incredulously. "Are you…are you _drunk_?"

Tony snorted. "Stupid question. I've had, like, half a bottle of scotch in the last half-hour, of course I'm drunk. Look, Steve," he said, losing his balance and regaining it in an undignified scramble, "Steve, look, things are just different from your day, okay, and you're such a sweet, innocent guy they probably—"

The punching bag went flying, split down the seam and spraying sand all over the floor, the chain broken in two places. "**_NO_**, Tony!" Steve's bellow filled the empty gym all the way out to its dark corners; the smaller man rocked back involuntarily in his seat.

"Things are **_no different_**! Don't you **_get_** it? That's the whole damn problem!" He wheeled around, eyes alight with rage. "I thought things had **_changed_**. I thought that after seventy years, the world would be different, that _people_ would be different, we'd be wiser and, and kinder, and—and just **_better_**. But we're _NOT_. Back in the 40's, I remember people—American citizens—getting rounded up and put in _internment camps_ just because of their race. American soldiers got segregated into different units by their skin color. I had to fight tooth and nail against my own commanders to choose my own squad in the fight against Hydra, just 'cause some of the guys I hand-picked weren't white. And when I think about what some of the fellas in school used to call gays… A guy kissed another man in public back then, they'd both have been dragged into an alley and beaten 'til they couldn't walk."

Steve collapsed into a chair near Tony, sorrow thick on his face. "I just…I really thought the world had changed, that people had grown. But we haven't. Human beings—_Americans_—are just as stupid and selfish and short-sighted and _cruel_ as we've always been. Society hasn't changed a bit." A single tear leaked from one blue eye; he had never looked so vulnerable.

But Tony ruined the moment, flopping over and patting Steve's shoulder awkwardly, drawing a glare from the blonde, who jerked back. "Come on, champ. Where's that boundless optimism? The noble and heroic faith in the Mighty Power of Good?"

Steve shoved Tony away roughly, grief and vulnerability replaced by anger. "I'm not going to be made fun of for wanting to do the right thing and help people. I don't even know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you'll remember it tomorrow."

"Aww, don't be like that," Tony whined, losing his balance again, and clutching at Steve's shirt to try and stop him from leaving.

"No, Tony." Steve shook him loose. "I needed you today, more than I knew, and you abandoned me. Bruce I can let it slide, 'cause he's got enough on his plate dealing with keeping the Hulk under control, but you… You saw this coming, you must have, and you picked your scotch bottle over me."

He strode purposefully away, stopping halfway to the door. "I'm going to shower off and try to relax and get past this. I don't want to see you again today, and don't bother coming to bed tonight, either."

After he had gone, Tony sat for a while, marinating in shame and the smell of booze. When he tried to stand, he lost his balance again, tripping over another shredded punching bag and bashing his cheek on the concrete floor. He crawled over on his hands and knees to prop his back against the cold, hard, grey wall, sitting there motionless for hours, until at length the blood stopped flowing on its own and crusted, hard and brown, along the line of his jaw.

...

A/N: And here begins the angst. It's gonna get worse before it gets better. Fair warning.


	8. Chapt 8: Actions Have Consequences

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

/WARNING/ A/N: Trigger warnings for: more homophobia, parental abuse/neglect, and especially dubcon

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Chapter 8: In Which They Discuss The Consequences Of Their Actions

By sundown, Tony was sufficiently sober to be fully aware that he was entirely and completely in the wrong, but not quite sober enough to be able to deal maturely with that knowledge. Add to that the vicious hangover he was nursing, and the resulting mess of bad decision-making lead to him deciding that Steve could cram his proclamation up his ass, and there was no way in hell the Star Spangled Boy Scout was going to keep him from sleeping in his own god dammed bed.

Tony struggled out of his Metallica t-shirt, dropping it onto the floor by the bed for Bruce to fuss over in the morning. The glow from the arc reactor turned the dim room an eerie blue. He was wrestling with the belt of his jeans when Steve walked in from the bathroom.

The blonde was clearly just out of the shower; he was wearing nothing but a towel, a sheen of water, and an angry glare. He stalked past Tony, bumping him with his shoulder on his way to the nightstand.

"I told you not to come to bed tonight," he said, straining to keep his voice cold and neutral as he rummaged through the nightstand drawer.

"Yeah, well, you're not the boss of me, are you?" Tony shot back. "What makes you so fucking special, huh?" He shoved the small of Steve's back roughly. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Steve kept his back to Tony, his shoulders tensing as he stalked to the other side of the room. "We are NOT discussing this now." Tony followed him, jabbing a finger into Steve's side to punctuate each point.

"You don't make the rules, Steve! We'll 'discuss this now' if I fucking want to! Get down off your God damned high horse and come crawl in the dirt with us mortals for a while, why don't you? Captain Fucking America, Captain Pure, Captain Perfect, so mature and responsible, of course you wouldn't deign to grace me with your presence tonight, you're too good for my crap, right, who am I to darken your doorstep! I've had it with your sanctimonious, self-righteous bullshit, you selfish, melodramatic—"

Steve's control snapped. The towel fell to the ground as he whipped around, grabbing Tony by the throat and slamming him against the wall. "How can you call **me** selfish, you—all three of us are affected by this, you know, the only difference is that Bruce and I can both act like human beings about it! He's been responsible about his feelings, dealing with his stress by focusing on other things, and I was _TRYING_ to work through my anger responsibly too. But you—oh, no, you're too good for that, aren't you? Maturity is _boring_, Tony Stark does what he wants."

He flung Tony across the room; the dark-haired man hit the side of the bed roughly, but regained his feet. "You're the selfish one, Tony. You'd rather run away and hide in the bottom of a bottle than be there for the people you claim to love. Even worse, you have the gall to come and throw your problems on my shoulders too? And then you **_dare_** to come in here tonight—I'm not pretending to be perfect, I'm just trying to do the right thing, to get some space so we could _deal_ with this, but you're too stupid and petty and **_selfish_** to act like a mature adult for once in your damn life."

Tony swallowed hard as Steve stalked towards him, anger vibrating from every inch of his body, hard muscles rippling beneath his skin. _I, uh, I forgot how _big_ he is_… He tried to step back, but his legs hit the bed and he sat down hard. He'd never seen such a cold look on the Captain's face before; the sudden transformation was terrifying. Steve was glaring at him with hard, cruel eyes, eyes that seemed to go right through him. Steve was the one stark naked, but Tony had never felt so exposed.

He could feel his heart beat up into his throat as Steve leaned down over him, shards of ice in every word. "I've had it with your bullshit, Tony. You get a free pass some of the time because of the good things you do when you're NOT being an asshole, and you charm your way out of a lot of the rest of it, but I'm out of patience this time. Your choices have consequences, and it's about damn time someone taught you that."

Fear was rising in Tony's chest. He didn't like the way the threat in Steve's voice was affecting him, but he couldn't deny the blood rushing to his swelling cock. Steve reached out to stroke his neck, deceptively gentle, reminding Tony of the way a snake moves just before it strikes. He tried to do something, to escape, to protest, anything, but his body wouldn't respond and his throat had closed up and his head was swimming and now Steve had thrown him down against the bed, suddenly and violently, so hard even the soft mattress nearly winded him.

Broad hands ripped the belt apart, destroying the leather and sending the buckle flying, then tore open the front of his jeans. The zipper was rent from the fabric with a frighteningly loud tearing noise, startling Tony into finding his voice again.

"Steve—_Steve_—wait—I don't—"

"Oh, no. No waiting. You're not the one in charge here, Tony." Steve manhandled him over onto his stomach, tugging the jeans roughly down off him, leaving him bare and on display. Tony struggled, trying to turn back over, to see what Steve was doing, but the soldier slammed him back down, bent over the edge of the bed, holding him forcibly in place with one broad hand at the nape of his neck.

Tony's heart was slamming against his chest, but despite his fear his mouth started running again before his brain could intervene, provoking Steve further.

"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, lecture me? Stick me in time-out? Play tough if you want to, but we both know you don't have it in you to—" he broke off into a loud grunt when Steve ground his head violently down into the bed.

"I wouldn't count on that," he growled low into Tony's ear. "You don't know who you're dealing with, Tony. You like to mock me for choosing to do the right thing, but have you ever considered what would happen if I _didn't_? I'm aware of other options, Tony."

A broad hand stroked up the inside of Tony's thigh as the deep rumble continued. The lower octaves of his voice sent a thrill up Tony's spine that was feeling less and less like fear as the hand worked its way up his leg. "I'm not that pure, Tony. I _choose_, every day, to do the right thing. It's not always easy, you know. Some days…some days you make it so very hard." On the last word, his probing fingers reached the cleft of Tony's ass, thrusting deep inside and driving all conscious thoughts from his mind.

Tony yelled, Steve's dry fingers burning the ring of muscles around his hole, stretching them suddenly and painfully open. "Is this what you wanted, Tony?" Steve roared into his ear. "Is this what you want? You want me to get dirty, fine, I'll play!"

A moan worked its way out of Tony's throat without his consent. He really, _really_ didn't want to admit that he could get off on being taken like this, being held down and used and brutalized with wild, selfish abandon. But whatever else he avoided accepting, he couldn't deny the aching in his groin. He was already rock-hard under Steve's ministrations.

_Besides_, he thought bitterly as a harsh, needy gasp escaped his lips, _this isn't that different from what I do to myself, right? Drink it away, let Steve fuck it out of me, the failure's gotta go somewhere. I deserve this_. He screwed his eyes shut, burrowing his face into the bed and gripping a double handful of the blanket.

The sudden empty feeling as Steve's fingers were removed did nothing to soothe the burning in his hole. Tony mewled in protest, pushing his hips back in a futile attempt to recapture the delicious pain, but Steve slapped him sharply across the ass, leaving a stinging red handprint on his cheek. A strong arm wrapped around his mouth, cutting off his cry.

"Shut up. This isn't _about_ you. You're going to take my cock like a good little whore, any way I give it to you, and keep your mouth shut while you do it."

Steve drove into Tony, hard and sudden; he whimpered, the dry friction stinging his hole. Steve set a brutal, punishing pace, slamming into him fiercely. Tony scrabbled for purchase on the bed, trying to brace himself, only to have Steve wrench his wrists back with his free hand. Tears welled, leaking out his clenched eyes as Steve twisted his arms up behind his back towards his shoulders, tweaking them excruciatingly far as he tore into him again and again and again.

Tony tried to relax, breathing as deeply as he could manage, but the desperate double sensation of pain and pleasure mixed was too overwhelming. His neglected cock was throbbing underneath him, leaking precum onto the bed. He moaned wantonly into Steve's sturdy arm, rutting back onto his cock shamelessly.

He was weeping in earnest—whether from agony or arousal, he wasn't sure—when a wedge of light fell across the floor from the open door. Neither man noticed Bruce standing in the doorway of the darkened room, stunned incredulity spreading across his face.

Bruce stepped forward into the room, slowly, switching on the lights as he came through the doorway. Neither of the bed's occupants looked up, although Steve blinked and ducked his head in the sudden light as he kept driving into the whimpering man underneath him.

It took a long few moments for Bruce to process past his disbelief in the evidence of his own eyes, but when his brain finally caught up, he leapt forward, shouting.

"Steve, what the hell are you _doing_?! For God's sake, you're _hurting_ him! Stop!"

The rough, forceful jerk on his shoulder, hauling him back away from Tony, jolted Steve suddenly out of the dark mood that had possessed him. He leapt back, tripping over his own feet and falling hard on the carpet, only to scramble back away from the bed in panicked fear, blue eyes wide as saucers. Bruce was clutching Tony, who had unfolded limply on the bed, his choking sobs no longer muffled by the blanket.

"Jesus, Steve, look at him!" Bruce cradled Tony's tearstained face as he inspected the damage. "Oh my god, he's _bleeding_, look at him, his ass is torn to shit—I think you might have dislocated his shoulder—" he wheeled around, rounding on the horror-struck Steve— "_WHAT_ in the _FUCK_ were you _DOING_?!"

Steve stammered out, "I, I, I don't know, I—we were fighting, and then I just—"

"You just _WHAT_, Steve? You just decided to dryfuck him until he bled and twist his arms up until his wrists were touching his neck? You just decided to forget you're twice his size and **_permanently hopped up on steroids_**?" Bruce was shouting now as he stood, twitching, his whole body shaking as his speech became less and less coherent.

"N-no, I—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened I'm so sorry—Bruce, please—"

"It's not his fault." A quiet, broken voice from the bed somehow cut through the escalating tension. The whole room went still as the grave; Bruce took several deep, shuddering breaths, drawing his anger back under his skin.

Tony rolled onto his side, staring at nothing with dull, lifeless eyes. "I wanted him to do it. I deserve it."

Huge tears welled in Steve's eyes as he whispered in a shaky voice, "oh God, Tony, no…"

He crawled to the bed, but Bruce got there first, stroking the dark hair out of Tony's eyes with a soothing, gentle hand.

"Tell me."

Tony wouldn't look at them. "It's my fault. I—I provoked him, I did it on purpose. I knew I could push him into losing his temper. I wanted him to hurt me."

Bruce ignored Steve's strangled sobs, keeping his voice soft and compassionate. "Why, Tony? Why would you ever want that?"

Tony shifted his gaze to the floor, picking at the blanket with one hand. "I don't know. I was tired and my head hurt and I just thought—I mean, it's all my fault, I fucked everything up, and you were hiding in your lab and Steve was so angry at everyone and it was all my fault, and then I messed up so bad, again, and I knew it was my fault but I didn't want to admit it and I wasn't really thinking but I guess maybe I thought if I got punished, if I got what I deserved, it wouldn't hurt so bad. Maybe. But my head hurts and my ass hurts and my arms hurt and I'm really sick to my stomach and now Steve hates himself, so I guess I ruined him too, and I guess my dad was just right about me all along, I guess."

Steve was weeping openly now, fat teardrops rolling down his cheeks like rain. He reached up towards the bed, pulling his hand back before he touched Tony and then balling his fists against the side of the mattress. "Oh God…baby, baby I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any of it, any of those things I said, I never wanted to hurt you…"

Tony reached down, covering Steve's fist with his hand. "I know. I know you didn't. You never do, that's why I love you so much, _because_ you're always so good to us, always. I'm so sorry."

Bruce sighed, wiping his eyes dry. "Okay. O-okay. Steve, just—go get a towel or a washcloth or something and let's get him cleaned up, okay? It's—it's gonna be okay."

Steve stood, hiccupping and sniveling, and half-ran to the bathroom and back. He and Bruce cleaned the blood gently from Tony's cleft and thighs as he lay unresisting on the bed, then pulled him to the center of the bed under the covers, dimming the lights.

Steve waited until Bruce and Tony were situated before slipping into the free space on Tony's other side, snuggling in close and wrapping his arms tight around Tony's waist, pulling him into his chest as if trying to assuage his guilt by skin contact alone. Bruce reached over, entwining his fingers through Steve's with a comforting squeeze.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, Steve broke the silence. "Babe, I really—I know I said this already, but I am so sorry. I just—I just can't believe I lost control like that. I know it's not enough to make up for it, but I'm sorry."

"No, look, I already told you, it wasn't your fault, I—"

Steve cut him off. "No, Tony. I'm not—look, I get what you're saying, about what you were doing, and it's definitely a problem that we will have to talk about sooner or later, but I am a grown man. With free will and everything, who makes his own choices. Whatever you did or didn't do, I made the _choice_ to behave that way and that is _inexcusable_, no matter what the circumstances. You two deserve better, and I will **_be_** better, for you. I'll never lose control like that again, I promise."

They lay in silence for a while. After a long pause, Bruce murmured into the darkness. "Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you mean, what you said about your father?"

The silence stretched out long before he answered. "Dad was…I don't know. Sometimes he was great, and he was a hero to lots of people and everything, and whenever other people were around he'd go on and on about how I was the future and I was gonna do great things, but…when he'd been drinking…" Tony sighed deeply. "He found out I was bi when I was sixteen and he walked in on me and my Chemistry lab partner, Zack, making out in my room. I hid from him for the rest of the day, but my mom convinced me to go into his study and talk to him that night…he was hammered, of course. He wouldn't even look at me. The only thing he said was that I was already a failure in every other way, he shouldn't have been surprised I'd turn out to be a fairy too. It was the last time we spoke for years."

A spasm of grief and guilt crossed Steve's face as his comments about Tony's father the first time they met ran through his mind. He wordlessly hugged the inventor even tighter to his chest.

"So, yeah. I mean, whatever, I'm over it." A trace of the old false bravado sauntered bravely back into Tony's voice. "Hey, um, Steve?"

"Yeah, babe? What is it?"

"Do you, uh, you think you could be a peach and get me a glass of something? Just a taste."

Steve hesitated. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

Tony pouted, nuzzling the larger man's neck. "I need it, it helps me sleep."

Steve sighed deeply and caved, dragging himself out of bed and fetching a half-glass of whiskey. He helped Tony sit up to drink it, even helped him steady his shaking hands; Tony missed the worried look that passed between the others as he drank.

Bruce lay awake thinking for hours after the other two men's breathing had slowed and softened as they drifted off to sleep, anxiety gnawing in his gut.

...

A/N: Nah but seriously though kids, in the real world we call this rape. Sex isn't sex unless both parties have given INFORMED AND UNCOERCED consent. That includes no emotional/mental pressure to do anything, too, btw. THIS HAS BEEN A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT WITH DANCINGLOKI, TREAT YOURSELVES AND YOUR PARTNERS WITH RESPECT, KISSES I LOVE YOU ALL


	9. Chapt 9: The World Keeps Turning

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

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/WARNING/ A/N: Trigger warnings for: alcoholism and mental illness

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Chapter 9: In Which The World Keeps Turning

They did, in fact, 'talk about it' later. The next day dawned bright, clear, sunny and obnoxiously pleasant and cheerful, which would have been personally offensive to Tony if he'd been in any way aware of it. However, none of the three had the faintest idea about or interest in what was going on outside, because they stayed in bed for the entire day.

They lay together, cuddling and consoling each other, and talking about (very nearly) everything without holding anything (with one or two exceptions) back. For long stretches they simply lay together without speaking, taking comfort in the others' mere presence. When they were hungry, Tony activated the tower's absurdly elaborate internal systems and had whatever they wanted delivered straight to the room by an automated system.

They talked about Tony's self-destructive tendencies. They spent hours—most of the day, in fact—dissecting his insecurities and self-loathings, his fears and his frustrations. They chased his pain and doubt and anger in circles until they could pin it down and flay it open and expose the core. It wasn't not a solution, far from it, but it was a damn good first step. Tony promised to tell them whenever he started to hate himself again. Bruce and Steve weren't sure they believed him, but they each decided privately to wait and see.

They talked about Steve, too. Tony didn't want to talk about it, dragged his heels as long as he could and tried to divert them and change the subject; he just wanted to forget it had ever happened, but Bruce was very insistent. He wanted to know where that mad raging darkness came from to possess the normally sweet-tempered man, seemingly out of nowhere. At first, Steve couldn't handle any introspection or analysis; he was stuck too deeply in the shame and remorse he felt for his actions. But when Bruce began describing his own experiences with sudden, destructive anger he couldn't control or stop once it set in, they started making headway.

The longer they talked about it, the deeper and deeper they drove, the more things Steve realized about himself—things he had hidden, or hidden from, things he didn't know—didn't even know that he wasn't aware of their absence. Tony wouldn't engage or participate in the discussion, but Bruce kept at it until Steve was able to admit to himself and to them that he had been repressing a reasonably serious case of what he called 'war fatigue' ever since S.H.I.E.L.D. first revived him.

Tony came out of his sulk when Steve described how hard he had worked to hide from them that almost every night he woke in a cold sweat from a nightmare he could never remember. He sent a brief message to the American Veteran's Association, describing the situation and "requesting" that they provide some sort of assistance. Bruce intervened before he could send it; the brief quarrel over whether Fury deserved to know or not was settled when Steve insisted that he should be told. Fury and Coulson were CC'd on the message, and then Tony immediately locked down their entire suite, making them completely unreachable to avoid dealing with Fury's (doubtlessly loud) reaction to the information.

After a few more tears and a few more circular apologies between Tony and Steve, they settled down to a quiet night of snuggling and gentle kisses, drifting off to sleep entangled in each other's arms.

Things seemed a little brighter the next morning. They ventured out into the tower, Steve tagging along behind Bruce and Tony like an oversized puppy as they checked up on their experiments. They cautiously wandered down to the ground floor, pleasantly surprised to find the sidewalk in front of the building completely deserted. The security guard at the front desk told them, with a note of wicked glee in her voice, that the mayor had called in three SWAT units to contain the riot Steve had inadvertently started, and the entire protest had been hauled away in handcuffs.

Pepper caught up with them in the foyer. After an awkward apology for lying to them—and some serious indignation on her part when she found out Bruce and Tony were only playing dumb—she got them caught up on her various legal schemes, particularly the personal injury lawsuit against Westboro, which she felt _very_ confident about. She also leaned in to tell Steve in an undertone about the VA counselor who had showed up at the tower barely an hour after Tony's email went out, and slipped him their personal cell number for "whenever you're ready, sweetie, we're all behind you." Bruce silently Looked at him until he phoned that afternoon to set up his first appointment.

For the next few days, Tony and Steve were obnoxiously, infuriatingly sweet and accommodating to each other—Steve as a continued attempt to apologize, and Tony trying to show him all was forgiven—until Bruce got fed up with the both of them, smacked them each over the head with a rolled magazine and told them to knock it off and act normal before he lost patience with them, and then stalked off to wall himself in his lab and sulk. A moment of stunned silence spent staring at each other dissolved into shocked laughter; the tension finally broken, they returned to as close to normal as possible.

Steve met with the VA counselor three times a week, and made great strides. The whole team (especially Thor, once Jane got him to understand what therapy was) went to great lengths to be supportive and not let him feel self-conscious or ashamed, but rather proud of taking the first steps to get better. After a few months, the nightmares will have all but stopped.

Tony, on the other hand, didn't keep his word on being upfront with them about his insecurities. Steve brought it up once, just checking in on him, but Tony's indignant and suspiciously offended reaction—and the next two days, of which he spent the entire 48 hours drunk off his ass—convinced Steve not to press the issue.

Pepper, of course, wound up winning the lawsuit and completely bankrupting the Westboro organization, to the tune of tens of millions. Steve took a stand and insisted on using the windfall to start some sort of foundation for LGBTQ* individuals, and was, absurdly, almost a little disappointed by how quickly and enthusiastically everyone jumped on board. Tony threw a series of carefully planned tantrums until he got them to agree to let him name it, and the Captain America Protective Society for Individual Civil Liberty and Equality was up and running within a week, providing personal, legal and political resources not only for LGBTQ* individuals, but for _anyone_ who was being treated with less than the human dignity and fairness they deserved: combating racism, ageism, sexism, body-type-ism, any –ism you could think of. Steve was over the moon, and Tony and Bruce glowed with pride every time they saw him stand up in front of a crowd, openly and passionately arguing for fair and just treatment for all, for the _true_ American dream he had always believed in and fought for.

Those periodic victories helped a lot to sustain them during the rough patches. Things got hard, for a time; Stark Industries' stock dropped significantly, anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. who spoke out in support had a bullseye painted on their back for anyone with an agenda to shoot at, and only Pepper's skillful machinations kept the whole team from being political whipping boys for every Conservative group in town, from DOMA to the AFA and everyone in between.

It's rough, but they endure. They're a family, so they pull together. They pull _through_ together. And, several lawsuits and an impressively artful PR campaign later, they come out on top.

...

As their six-month anniversary approached, Tony decided it had been entirely too long since he'd thrown a ridiculously extravagant fancy party, and started planning a three-day gala the likes of which the city's upper crust had never seen. Ignoring Bruce and Steve's objections, he slapped on the biggest pair of blinders he could find and railroaded through their concerns. It took Pepper's direct intervention to make him rein it in even a little bit. She limited him to one evening and vetoed the strippers AND the Cirque du Soleil performance, but even the (relatively) smaller-scale affair was a source of growing unease for Bruce and Steve.

Steve had never liked formal affairs of any sort; high-class functions made him nervous, and turned him back into the skinny kid from Brooklyn who was happier in a ballpark or an alley scuffle than anywhere else and was terrified of small talk.

Bruce objected for several reasons, the obvious one being the stress and pressure of having so many strangers' eyes on him. On a more personal level, and more importantly in his opinion, he really hated the idea of such a personal milestone being put on display and made spectacle of for the world to see.

Still, Tony seemed so thrilled—almost giddy—and they really didn't want to rock the boat, so they swallowed their objections and tried to play nice. The party really wasn't so bad, once it started. Tony seemed to have been more considerate than they had expected in his planning; the buffet table was stocked with Bruce's favorite comfort foods rather than the usual party hors d'oeuvres. And Steve was thrilled when, instead of the electronica he had been fearing, the familiar mellow strains of a live band playing 1940's swing wafted out across the floor.

The three 'Guests of Honor' were dapper in perfectly tailored tuxedos, cummerbunds and ties colour-coordinated to match their not-so-secret identities. Tony was resplendent, peacocking in rich red and gold; Bruce was pleased with his stately muted green and purple. Steve, on the other hand, was less than pleased. He'd been more than a little disgruntled when Tony unveiled the garish stars and stripes in vivid red, white and blue, and Bruce's uncurbed laughter hadn't helped. But in the end he decided to be a sport about it, no matter how foolish he felt; and if he was honest with himself, the cheerful colors had grown on him.

The rest of the team was in formalwear too; by some miracle they'd actually found a tux big enough to contain Thor's biceps, much to Bruce's surprise. Natasha and Clint looked sharp in coordinated black and blood-red ensembles, each carefully concealing a veritable arsenal of lethal weaponry. (Old habits die hard, after all, and for them black tie usually meant a mission.)

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s upper levels of command, on the other hand, point-blank refused to dress up; Fury had been livid, practically ready to skin Tony just for mentioning it. Pepper, however, looked stunning in Tony's latest apology, a sweeping floor-length evening gown in midnight blue, as she chatted delightedly with Rhodey, his distinguished dress uniform glinting with medals.

The 'who's who' of America's rich and famous milled, chatted, snacked and danced as the evening wore on. Steve was beginning to relax and enjoy himself, clutching a flute of champagne (mostly for show), when he realized with a sudden surge of unease that he hadn't so much as glimpsed Tony in at least half an hour. He picked his way awkwardly across the crowded room to pull Bruce away from what sounded like a _fascinating_ conversation with Erik Selvig about some sort of…quantum-cosmo-radio-logical…physics…_thing_ so he could whisper in his ear.

"Bruce, have you seen Tony anywhere? It's been at least half an hour and I don't know where he's got to."

The doctor shrugged. "Does it really matter? He's probably just off yanking Fury's chain somewhere." He smiled and stroked Steve's arm gently. "You're sweet when you do the mother hen thing, but Tony will be fine on his own for one night. Just relax. Besides, what can happen to him here?"

Steve huffed in frustration. "I'm not worried about something happening to him, Bruce, I'm worried about _him_ happening **_to_** someone!"

Bruce chuckled. "Don't be so dramatic." He paused, an incredulous look spreading over his face as he saw sincerity in the blonde's expression. "Oh come on, Steve, you can't be serious…"

"Of course I'm serious!" He leaned in close, speaking low and fast. "Bruce, he's been drinking, and you _know_ how he gets. Not everyone here is a friend. There's plenty of people, political and business alike, who never supported us and did everything they could to mess up his company when things were bad and we were in the news and all that. They might be here now playing nice because he's back on top, but that doesn't mean they're suddenly on our side! They're those—what's that word Nat used? Fre-frennies?"

"Frenemies, though I'm not sure you're using the word correctly. But you're right." Bruce sighed. "I wouldn't put it past him to pick a fight tonight and rub it in their faces that they missed their chance to take him down. And I was just starting to enjoy myself… Come on, we'd better track him down. If you can't find him find Coulson, I bet he's keeping tabs on everyone. Or Pepper."

They parted, heading in opposite directions to scan the room: Steve towards the life-size ice carving of the Hulk bashing Loki on the floor, Bruce towards the bar.

Tony wasn't hard to find. Steve was disheartened to find his prediction correct; Tony had cornered a group of Tea Party senators and was hassling them, his veiled insults and cleverly backhanded witticisms growing less veiled and clever and more directly insulting with every shot he nabbed from the seemingly endless flow of waiters streaming around him. He looked drunker than Steve had seen him in a long time—maybe even since the incident with the protesters.

Steve braced himself, took a deep breath and fixed a bright, friendly grin in place, before striding forward to place a steadying hand on Tony's back.

"Gentlemen, could I borrow Tony for a minute, please?"

Tony swayed, clutching at Steve's tuxedo jacket to balance himself.

"Hey! Steve! Babe! Guys, this is Steve, my boyfriend—well one of my boyfriends, don't know where the other one's got to—you've met Steve, right? He's such a sweetie, _the most_ patriotic guy, and you should just _SEE_ what he can do with his—"

"Okay!" Steve cut in, his grin suddenly more manic than friendly. "Tony, could I have a word real quick?"

Tony, however, would not be diverted. "Honestly, guys, you really—now I mean every word of this—you wouldn't believe, the serum thing that doctor put together for him was really something, the muscle enlargement especially—see, they enlarged EVERYTH—" a broad hand wrapped firmly around his mouth as the red-faced soldier physically dragged him away from the scandalised senators.

Steve made it halfway across the room and had Bruce in his line of sight before Tony shook himself loose. The inventor's face was flushed with whiskey and rage. His enraged shout echoed too loud in the packed room; the band screeched to a halt as the whole company turned to stare.

"Get—get the **FUCK** off me, Rogers!"

Tony jerked back, swaying as Steve tried to grab his elbow to steady and calm him. Bruce hovered uncertainly on the edge of the empty circle spreading out from Tony and Steve as the other partygoers edged back away from them.

The blonde cast a nervous glance around them before lowering his voice to plead with Tony, "Please, Tony, just keep your voice down, okay?" He jumped back as Tony threw his empty shot glass down, smashing it on the wood floor.

"Fuck you, I will **NOT** calm down!"

"Tony, please—"

"What? What? I can't have a little fun?" He gave an ugly laugh. "Come on, Steve, it's a party, I was just screwin' around with 'em. After the shit their pals put us through, what, they can't take a joke?"

Bruce came up beside Tony, casting a helpless glance with Steve, who was still trying to reason with him. "Look, I just don't think this is the time or the place to—"

"Why the hell not?" Tony interrupted, staggering forward a few steps. "S'my party, right? I can do what I want."

Pepper started forwards to intervene, but Bruce waved her off as Tony started shouting again.

"Come on, everybody, where's the music? Let's dance, everybody dance, we're havin' fun, right? It's a gay party, I mean great, great party, whoops—Freud would have a field day, huh?"

His giggling fit turned abruptly nasty again when Steve leaned in to hiss in his ear. "Tony, stop. You're embarrassing yourself."

"Oh I am? I'm what? I'm embarrassing you? Hey, how 'bout that, everybody, big shock, Steve's ashamed of me again, never saw that coming—"

"No, that's not what I said!" Steve tried to interject, but Tony was building up steam, waving his arms to accentuate each point.

"That's funny, you know, Steve, that's really funny, because you talk a big game all the time about how 'everybody should just be themselves' and how you 'love us just the way we are,' but every time, every time I turn around, you're just trying to make me be more like **_you_**." He jabbed his finger sharply into Steve's chest on the last word. "I'm not good enough, right? I gotta be _perfect_, just like you. Can't have any fun, just gotta be just like Captain Perfect _aaaaall_ the time."

"I wonder what they'd think?" he slurred, wobbling on unsteady legs, "I wonder what all these fancy people would think then, if they found out about the _real_ Captain Perfect America?"

"Tony," Bruce warned in a low growl, but there was no stopping him.

"Whaddya think, Steve? Would **_I_** still be the one embarrassing **_you_** if all these people knew that you have to go to a _shrink_ just to stop yourself from accidentally _killing_ us? Huh?"

Steve recoiled as if slugged in the jaw. Bruce's mouth dropped open. There was a flicker of regret and shame in Tony's face, but he was too drunk and too stubborn to take it back.

Tears welled in the blonde's blue eyes. His fists clenched and unclenched, his jaw working soundlessly. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. The tortured and mortified look on his face would have melted the heart of the most hardened criminal, but Tony was too far gone to do anything other than set his jaw and stare Steve squarely in the eye, as good as daring him to deny it.

Pepper covered her open mouth with one shocked hand; a murmur ran through the crowd as Bruce took Steve by the arm and lead him wordlessly from the room, leaving Tony standing alone and disheveled in the center of the staring mob of guests.

Natasha came stalking out of nowhere, Clint following in her wake, every muscle of her lean body taut with fury. Without preface or warning she slapped Tony across the face with all her strength, sending him reeling to the floor.

"How _dare_ you. He has been working _so hard_, and you _dare_ throw that back in his face? Make him think the illness he's been overcoming is something to be _ashamed_ of?"

She glared down at the stunned man at her feet. Tony was staring at the blood on his hand from where she'd opened his lip.

"Those two are the best thing to ever come into your life. You better get your shit together, Tony, or you're going to risk losing them."

...

A/N: "War fatigue" was an old term used for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in the first and second World Wars and earlier, before PTSD was fully understood. Nightmares and other problems sleeping, as well as sudden inexplicable fits of rage, are all common symptoms of PTSD. (So there.) On a personal note, keep an eye out for a one-shot in this same 'verse, a "deleted scene" immediately following the party. I decided not to include it here because I don't think it fits the narrative of where I want to take the story, but I still wanted to write it for various reasons. Enjoy!


	10. Chapt 10: What Must Be Done

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 10: In Which The Team Discuss What Must Be Done

The assembly gathered in cautious silence. Four days had passed since the debacle at the dinner party. Tony had locked himself in his lab that night, completely isolated from all contact, and had not yet emerged; so they didn't think it was likely he'd be eavesdropping. Still, they took the attitude of "better safe than sorry", sitting in mute tension.

They jumped, startled, when a leatherbound redhead strode purposefully into the room, locking the door behind her. Clint dropped from the overhead air vent moments later.

Pepper broke the silence, her face grave. "Are we good?"

Clint nodded as Natasha answered solemnly. "We're good. Clint's deactivated all video and audio sensors in the room, so JARVIS can't keep tabs on us, and I've made sure we won't be interrupted by anyone else."

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "I still don't understand why we have to hide this meeting from Director Fury. We're all here for the same reason, right?" He looked around the room, meeting each person's eyes briefly. "We want to figure out what to do about Tony. Fury, Maria and Phil, they would want the same thing, wouldn't they? To help him?"

"I know you don't like secrets, hon, but let's go with Nat and Clint's instincts on this one, okay?" Bruce murmured, laying a consoling hand on Steve's arm. "I'm not saying we can't trust Nick, but…well, you know we don't always agree with his methods. Let's just keep this in the family until we figure out what to do, all right?" Steve nodded unhappily as Natasha and Clint took their seats around the conference table.

"Well then." Pepper leaned forward, steepling her perfectly manicured fingers. "Let's cut straight into it. Tony. We all know what the problem is."

"He's completely out of control," Clint stated flatly. "That scene last weekend was just the latest mess. I don't know if anyone else has tried talking to him about his drinking, but it sure didn't go over well when I brought it up. I'm sorry to be so blunt about it, guys," he added with a glance at Bruce and Steve, "but facts are facts; he's gone off the rails."

"The drinking sickness," Thor, the final member of the company, rumbled. When his statement attracted nothing but blank stares, he expanded. "This same affliction is known to us on Asgard. I have known many men, proud and strong warriors, unshakeable in battle, brought to grief and ruin by this curse."

"Do you have any sort of cure or treatment you use for people 'cursed'?" Natasha inquired.

The blonde giant shook his head. "Sometimes the one affected conquers their craving, through force of will; but it is rare. More often, once the sickness begins, the sufferer is as one already lost."

A somber gloom followed Thor's pronouncement. Steve eventually spoke up. He tried to summon the ringing conviction he had used so often to rally his forces in battle, but his voice fell flat, sounding hollow and desperate in his own ears. "Well, we're not gonna let that happen to Tony."

Bruce stretched out his arm, threading his fingers through Steve's to clasp his hand tightly; Pepper shook her head sadly.

"I agree with the sentiment, Steve, but it's a lot easier said than done. When it comes down to it, the fact is that even after everything that's happened, Tony simply won't believe he has a problem. You've seen first-hand how stubborn he is. If what happened Saturday night isn't enough to get him to admit something's wrong, well…I just don't know."

Bruce's voice was cracked, pleading, although with whom he didn't know. "He's got to believe it. He's not—he's stubborn, yeah, and stupid sometimes, but he's a _good man_. He knows what he did, he knows how much he's hurting Steve and me, he wouldn't—he won't. We just—we just have to show him, if we can pin him down and really _talk_ to him… He wouldn't keep doing this, knowing it's hurting us. He wouldn't. He _loves_ us."

Natasha's voice was grief-laden, but steady. "Of course he loves you, but Bruce, that might not be enough. This isn't something he can just stop—alcoholism is a disease, a real, chemical dependency. It _doesn't_ mean he doesn't love you, willpower just…isn't enough."

"I _know_ that, Natasha," Bruce snapped. "I _am_ a doctor so for _God's_ sake _please_ don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, you condescending—" Steve gripped his forearm, but he was already backtracking, regret softening his gentle features. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." He tugged his glasses off carelessly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I'm sorry. I just… I've been having trouble sleeping lately."

"It's okay. I understand." She reached across, giving his hand a gentle squeeze; he responded with a grateful smile.

"What _can_ we do?" Steve asked wistfully. "There's programs and treatments and stuff, right?"

"Well, yeah, of course," Clint answered, "but the problem with those…"

"They all depend on the individual," Pepper finished. She sighed and continued, "The first step in _any_ kind of recovery is admitting the problem and committing to solving it. They must have done something similar with your PTSD counseling, right?" Steve nodded as she went on. "There's all sorts of help we can get him, counseling, medication to reduce dependency, and so on, but it all depends on _him_."

Steve picked up the thread. "So basically, if Tony won't agree to get treatment, there's nothing we can do to help him?"

"Well, not _nothing_," Natasha answered. "But we're pretty limited, yeah."

Bruce exhaled. "We can support him emotionally, keep telling him that we love him and want what's best for him, but the choice has to be his." He smiled slightly. "It's not like we can have him committed."

Pepper sighed, "The number of times I've wished that were an option…", drawing a muted chuckle from the group. Well, most of the group.

"But…Stark is committed," Thor said uncertainly. "He has committed himself most resolutely to this team and to the defense of Midgard. I do not understand."

Clint ducked his head to hide his sniggering fit while Natasha explained, her lips quivering with suppressed amusement. "No, Thor, he meant—when we say "committed" in that context it means to have them admitted to some facility, like a hospital or something. They have clinics and things that help with addiction, Bruce just meant we can't have him sent to a place like that against his will."

"I see," he replied gravely, his frown indicating he definitely didn't.

The brief respite of amusement passed swiftly, however, and they soon grew solemn and serious once again.

"Well, it seems like there's not much point in having this meeting at all, then, is there?" Steve said with resignation, staring at the table.

"What do you mean?" Pepper asked carefully.

He sighed deeply. "We can't force Tony to get help. We've really only got two options." His gaze swept over each face. "We let things go on as they have been—dropping little hints and having him deliberately ignore them, and watching him go further and further off the deep end—or…"

"Or we confront him," Bruce finished.

Pepper nodded assent, her face grim. "I came to the same conclusion. I called this little meeting hoping someone would have an option C, but…" She took a deep breath. "Obviously, things can't go on this way. Saturday's performance alone is proof of that."

"So we confront him, then," Steve supplied.

"I guess what we really have to decide is how to do it," Natasha put in. "As a team, or…" She trailed off.

"Tasha and I have been talking about this on our own," Clint added. "We thought it was best left up to you two. If you want, we can all go together, talk to him as a group—kind of like an intervention, I guess. Family discussion, safety in numbers type thing?"

Bruce and Steve traded looks. Steve shrugged. "What do you think?"

"I'm not so sure," Bruce answered, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "I don't think he'd react too well to us teaming up on him."

"We wouldn't be teaming up on him, we'd just be—" Clint started to argue, but Bruce cut him off.

"Of course not, I know that, but that's how he'll see it. If we put him on the defensive, it'll throw any chance of getting through to him straight out the window."

"He's got a point," Natasha said, raising her eyebrows and tipping her head.

"Yes he does," Steve agreed, nodding. "And I agree. Bruce and I should go talk to him by ourselves. We'll have better luck reaching him and getting past his defenses if it's just the two of us." He looked over at Bruce, questioning. "Today?"

"Sure," he replied, dark hair bobbing as he nodded in agreement. His tone was lighter and more relaxed; seemingly, just reaching a decision made him feel a lot better. "Is he reachable, though? He's barricaded himself in his lab pretty well, I'm not sure even I can get in. His security protocols are pretty beefy."

Pepper snorted, fixing him with a patronizing stare. "Who exactly do you think you're talking to?" she deadpanned.

"You have access to his private labs?" Bruce asked, amazed. "Even at the highest security levels?"

"Oh please. This tower is my baby, I have access to _everything_. I'll key you in whenever you're ready, okay?"

An awkward pause ensued, with the rest of the company waiting for Steve and Bruce to respond.

"There's no rush, though," Natasha nudged softly after a long moment. "Take your time."

Her comment jolted them out of their reverie; they nodded, sighed, looking at each other and pushing away from the table. The rest of the group rose as well.

"Yeah, let's—let's go now."

"You sure?" Bruce whispered softly. "Last time you two talked…"

Steve wrapped a broad arm around Bruce's shoulders, pulling him close to nuzzle at the curls above his ear with a smile. "I'm sure. It's the right thing to do, and putting it off won't make it any easier."

He took a deep breath, meeting Pepper's eyes squarely, his face no longer tormented. Certainty and conviction rang from his face as Bruce's arm twined around his waist. "Let's do it."

...

A/N: One-shot's up, titled "What I've Done," check it out! Sorry for the cliffhanger, I'll try to hurry with the next chapter. On a personal note, doctorjamwatson now ships Stark Spangled Banner (*victory fist pump*) which is how this whole mess got started in the first place so well done me!


	11. Chapt 11: Things Come To A Head

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 11: In Which Matters Come To A Head

It was somewhat anticlimactic when Pepper simply swiped her ID card to let them into Tony's basement lab, with no fanfare or flair. Steve had been half-expecting some very complicated series of biometric scans, like in the spy movies Tony always picked on his turns for team movie nights (just to tease Clint and Natasha).

A faint smile crossed his face as he remembered the disgruntled look on Nat's face, the way she sneered at the ridiculous gadgets the characters used (_"Amateurs…you don't need that kind of hardware if you know what you're doing"_) or rolled her eyes when Clint got **very** dynamic as he picked apart the fight choreography (_"Oh come on, his center of gravity's ALL wrong for that move, there's no way he could—look at his elbows, look at his ELBOWS!"_).

But the nostalgic ease was wiped from his face as they entered the lab, hands still twined comfortingly together. It was impossible for Steve to stay lost in memories of happier times when the bleak reality of how greatly things had changed stretched out before him.

The lab was filthy. _Beyond_ filthy. Tony always cultivated a healthy amount of chaos in his workspace; it was part of his charm, and Steve always felt at home there. The frenzied, cheerful madness of strewn papers and scattered tools made him feel surrounded by Tony's boundless energy and his frenetic rush when caught in the throes of creation, even when the lab was empty of the man himself.

But what they found now was more than simple disorder. Grime coated every surface—_this has to be more than four days' worth_, Steve thought, feeling sick—and refuse, including rotting food debris, was piled haphazardly on little clumps on the desks, the floor, any available surface. Bruce covered his nose and mouth as the stench from the room washed over him. They traded nervous glances as they picked their way unsteadily across the floor, following the muted growls and metallic clanging noises from a back corner of the barely-lit room.

Bruce loosed Steve's hand after one final reassuring squeeze as they rounded Dummy's lifeless chassis, bringing Tony into view. _He_ was filthy, too, machine oil and dirt smeared on every inch of bare skin; his once-white wifebeater was a murky grey and he smelled like the inside of a sewer.

"Hey, Tony," Bruce ventured, striving to keep his voice even. "What are you working on?"

Tony merely grunted in response, staying buried neck- and elbow-deep in some mechanical monstrosity.

Steve and Bruce traded yet another worried look. Steve tried another tactic.

"You've been down here an awful long time, sweetheart," he said gently. "We've missed you. Why haven't you come up?"

"Bruce tol'me notta," came the slurred and barely audible response.

Bruce clenched his eyes, furrowing his brow. "Tony, you know I didn't mean—"

Tony cut him off, yanking his head out of the contraption and stomping off to an adjacent workbench. "You wanted space, I gave you space. Everybody's happy."

"First of all, no, nobody is happy. You heard what Steve said, we've missed you. And second, you heard what I said on Saturday, too. You _know_ you shouldn't have come up to bed like that, drunkenly humping me and trying to pretend like nothing happened, and you also know that when I said we needed space I didn't mean _four days_. Or that you should lock yourself in your lab and foreswear all human contact and make us fear for your safety." Bruce was calm but firm; he kept all trace of anger from his voice as he spoke, watching Tony with an even gaze. "We've been really worried about you."

For a moment it looked like Tony was going to turn and respond, but he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, fiddling with some delicate machinery.

Steve broke the silence when it became clear Tony intended to continue ignoring them for as long as humanly possible. "Tony, we need to talk to you about something."

He didn't look up. "What?"

Another anxious glance thrown to Bruce. "It's—it's important, baby, can you put the screwdriver down and just talk to us for a minute?"

Tony threw down the screwdriver, but not the mechanism, stomping back past them. Steve jumped back as Tony brushed by, nearly tripping over a mostly-empty scotch bottle. Tony jammed his hands back into the innards of the big contraption. "So talk. Nobody's stopping you."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "Tony, we need you to _listen_. Please."

Tony heaved a ragged, melodramatic sigh, stilling his motions. "Fine." He dramatically whipped his hands from the thing, spinning on his heel to face them for the first time in days. "You have my full attention. Talk."

Now that they could see his face, Bruce and Steve could see how bloodshot Tony's eyes were; and the stubborn set of his jaw only emphasized how haggard his face had become, even in the past few days. Bruce privately wondered if Tony had slept at all, and how much and how often he was eating…

"Tony, we need to talk about the drinking." _Too blunt?_ Bruce silently second-guessed himself. _No, he'll play dumb if we aren't direct_.

The grungy inventor smirked, defenses instantly on high alert. _Not a good sign_, Bruce thought. "What about it?" He leaned nonchalantly against his project.

Steve kept silent as Bruce forged ahead. "It's out of control, Tony. You need—"

A barked laugh cut him off. "Help, right? I need 'help'." Tony swung around with a bitter smile, picking up a wrench from the floor and returning his attentions to the machine as he spoke. "That's very original, guys. Really. I'm touched."

"Please, we need you to take this seriously," Steve pleaded, eyes wide with concern. "You're hurting us, and you're hurting _yourself_. This has to stop, Tony, please—"

"Okay, okay, fine!" _I swear I can _hear_ him rolling his eyes_, Bruce sighed mentally. "Message received. You guys are pissed, I get it. I'll cut back, all right?"

"We've heard that tune before," Bruce said wearily. "Besides, we're not talking about just being upset over a bad night or a bad weekend. You have a _serious problem_."

"It's not something to be ashamed of, Tony!" Steve chimed in. "Alcoholism is a disease, but there are lots of ways for you to get clean—"

"I'm not an alcoholic."

"You can't—"

"I am _not_ an alcoholic."

"Tony—"

"Don't 'Tony' me. I'm not an alcoholic."

"Tony, if you would please just—"

"I'm not a fucking alcoholic, Steve. I'm a drunk, sure, but I'm not an alcoholic. I'm in control of my own fucking life and **_IF_** I wanted to stop, I could."

"So what happened on Saturday, that was you in control?" Something in the timbre of Bruce's voice made Tony look up, meeting his steady stare. "You were in control when you tore into Steve like that? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that was really you talking? That you _meant_ what you said to him that night?"

Tony looked away, his expression a cross between chagrin and defiance as Bruce continued. "Of course you can't, because you didn't. You're a good man, you're a wonderful, caring, considerate boyfriend—but only when you're sober. The drinking changes you, Tony, into someone I _know_ you don't want to be and if you were really in control, you wouldn't choose to become that person. That's not who you are."

A muscle in Tony's cheek was twitching as he glared at the wall, jaw set. Steve tiptoed forward hesitantly, worming his hand past Tony's rigid arm to wrap lightly around his wrist. "Please," he whispered softly. "Please, just let us help you. Please."

For one breathless, heartpounding moment, Bruce thought they had done it, broken through the layers of armour and defensiveness and _really_ gotten through to him; Tony's lip quivered, his eyes darted back and forth, he was hesitating, wavering, hovering on the brink—

And then just like that it was gone. _He_ was gone, again. The moment passed, and Bruce watched Tony draw back into himself, his soft brown eyes going hard and glittering, his face once again transformed into a cruel, proud, guarded man Bruce could barely recognize. He shook Steve's hand off roughly, a bitter, mocking laugh forcing its way out of his throat to echo through the dark and dirty lab.

"I don't need help. I'm just fucking fine. There's nothing wrong with me. You don't like the way I am, fine, then don't date me. That's your, you know, whatever. Your right. But you own that, okay? It's your problem, not mine. I don't have a problem. _You_ have a problem with _me_."

"Tony, that's not— Will you just _listen_, **_please_**?"

"I did listen. You got something else to say?"

"Tony, you can't go _on_ like this!" Steve argued passionately, spreading his arms wide. "Look around you, for God's sake! Look at what you're doing to yourself, to us! How long do you really think things can last this way? Bruce and I aren't the only ones affected, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony shot back, eyes sparking.

"That you've got the whole team worried about you. They'd all be here with us if we hadn't decided that—"

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?!"

Bruce shut his eyes. _Oh, shit_.

"Decided? You _decided_? You were planning all this behind my back, you son of a bitch—"

"Tony, no, we were just _talking_—"

"Talking, talking hell! Talking behind my back is more like, _discussing_ me, _plotting_ things, ganging up on me, you _bastards_, I can't _believe_ this—"

Bruce interjected before Tony could work himself too far up into the frenzy he was clearly aiming for. "Tony, **_stop it_**. Yes, we talked about this as a group, right before we came down here to find you, but you can't fairly say we were going behind your back when you locked yourself down here and wouldn't talk to anyone. The whole team is worried about you. Your drinking is affecting everyone, and yes, we all met, as a _family_, to talk about how to bring it up to you." Tony had ceased shouting, but was quivering with rage.

"We're tired, Tony. We're tired of the blackouts, the puking fits, the rages and the temper tantrums…" Bruce felt himself start to tear up as he continued. "We're so tired. We can't do this anymore. You have to stop, or…" he trailed off, a single tear leaking down his face.

"Or what?" Tony whispered, hoarse.

Steve moved to stand beside Bruce, presenting a united front, his face grieved but determined. "Or we just can't do this anymore. Bruce is right, Tony. It's enough."

"You're giving me an ultimatum?" Incredulity filled Tony's voice.

"No, it's just—" Bruce started, but Steve cut him off.

"Yes. Yes, okay?" He waved down Bruce's objections. "No, no, we're gonna call it what it is. This isn't what we came down here to say, it _isn't_ what we wanted to happen, but we both know that this is how we feel, Bruce." Steve looked back at Tony, the resolution in his face not concealing his dejection.

"This is what it is, Tony. Here's the sand, there's the line. You stop this, you _deal_ with this, or…or we're done." His voice quavered. "We can't do this anymore, Tony. We're too tired. You get help, or we walk."

They stood there, in the gloom and filth and stench, staring each other down. When Tony spoke, his voice was soft, and quiet, and razor-deadly.

"You don't dictate terms to me."

A long, hollow emptiness stretched between them.

For the second time in a week, Bruce and Steve turned and walked wordlessly away.

It would be the last time they would see him for a long time.

...

A/N: I realized when I posted the last chapter that somehow I had categorized this story under "Humor." Oops.


	12. Chapt 12: The Shards Of A Heart

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 12: When A Heart Shatters The Shards Hit Everyone Close

"The fuck you mean, _moved out_?"

"Exactly what I said, Director."

"Can they _do_ that?" Said with wonder and disbelief.

An exasperated sigh. "Yes, Director, they can. As Miss Potts once took great pains to explain to you, they are in fact free agents."

"I still…can't believe they'd leave. Not really." Sounding hurt, confused.

"They haven't left S.H.I.E.L.D., just…just Tony. They haven't even left New York, they found a little flat over in Brooklyn. Captain Rogers gave me the address, I've got it right here."

"How can they _afford_ it?"

Annoyance tempered with humour in his voice: "Well, the Captain had sixty-four years accumulated back pay, and Doctor Banner is independently wealthy from the"—a rustle of papers in a file folder—"Relativistic Reverse-Spin Plasma Projection Spectrometer he patented eight months ago—"

"He patented a _what_ now? What's it _do_?"

More rustling of papers. "It…analyzes the lightspeed deconstruction coefficient of a theoretical quantum radiation particle in four-space as it passes through a reverse-polarity neutron—" the other man's eye had glazed over. "It does something very complicated to do with physics that other physicists find very helpful."

"The next time I ever ask you about that scientific bullshit, just remind me I don't want to know."

"I think I can handle that, Director. My point was they're doing just fine. Financially speaking, that is."

A dark, heavy silence.

"What are they doing?"

"Just…living, apparently. I've got a couple of guys keeping tabs on them. They go to the library, go for walks in the park, Captain Rogers has been showing Doctor Banner some of his childhood haunts…" More paper-rustling. "Banner found them dance lessons. Rogers is learning to cook. Living."

"_Dance lessons_?"

"Well, more like a club, really."

"Do I want to know?"

"Swing dance, Director. Apparently the Captain always wanted to learn." A pause; the soft _thwap_ of a closing file folder. "Hard to believe they settled in this quickly."

"It's been two weeks, Phil."

"A week and a half."

"Whatever." A beat. "Pull the surveillance."

After a moment: "…Are you sure, sir?"

"…Yeah. They'll come if we need them. In the meantime…just let them be. They've been through enough."

...

"Clint, come on."

"No."

"Clint, we're _all_ upset right now, but we have jobs to do, okay? We have to put our personal feelings aside, and deal with the mission, like always."

"It's not happening."

"Come on, just get down here, _please_?"

"Make me."

"This isn't safe, Clint!"

"Oh fuck you, I've never fallen in my life."

"Clint, this is _ridiculous_."

"Maria, _go away_."

"You're acting like a **_child_**."

"And your point is?"

"Look, what are you going to do, just live in the air vents forever?"

"Or until the next alien invasion, whichever one comes first."

"God _dammit_, Barton!"

"God _dammit_, Hill!"

"Oh that's just great behaviour, very mature."

"Fuck mature. I'm not coming down."

"This is not cute. You are not five. You are a _grown man_. This is _enough_."

"Fuck cute, too."

"Ugh, you have got to be fucking _kidding_ me! **How** did I get roped into bird duty?!"

"I'm not coming down, Maria."

"Come on, Clint, you can't be serious… You **_cannot_** stay up there forever!"

"I'm pretty comfy up here, actually."

"Clint, you can't make the tower air vents into a fucking DEN."

"I'm _nesting_. Birds _nest_."

"Oh, this is just ridiculous."

"I've got a little bed I made out of blankets—"

"How is this my life?! What wrong choices did I make that lead me to this situation?!"

"And a clear line to the tower food reserves, and—"

"It's a dream. This is all some insane hallucination, and I'm going to wake up in a hospital bed somewhere with a fever of a hundred and eight and it'll all just be my sick imagination."

"I even nicked a TV out of one of the break rooms. I'm set."

"Agent Barton. What do you think Agent Romanoff is gonna say when she finds out about this? She's going to be _furious_."

"I'm surprisingly okay with it, actually."

A long pause, followed by the dull thud of skull against drywall.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Tasha's up here with me."

The resulting frustrated wail could be heard three floors away.

...

"I do not like this!"

"No one likes it."

"I do not understand why the Man of Iron would allow this to come to pass!"

"Sweetie, from what I've been hearing, he didn't have that much control over it."

"Stark is much beloved of his lovers! They have been much devoted to each other since their joining! How could they abandon him so callously?!"

"They weren't being callous, and they didn't just _abandon_ him. You saw yourself how Tony's drinking was affecting them."

"That is also of concern! How could he continue such behaviour?!"

"They explained to you how alcoholism works, right?"

"I am no child, Jane. I understand this. As I have said before, this sickness is known to Asgard as well. But it is not of import!"

"Not— Thor, honey, it's entirely of import."

"It is not!"

"_Yes_, it _is_. You can't overcome an addiction just by 'a warrior's willpower'!"

"Stark is a man of great conviction! The Man of Iron is a warrior bold and true, a champion of his people! Such a man, unflinching in battle, should show no less a certainty in love! How could he so easily renounce the objects of his affection?!"

"Thor, I'm sure Tony loves Bruce and Steve very much, but—"

"No! But nothing! He should not have turned his back on them in such a manner, for such poor cause as this!"

"You know perfectly well that is _not_ what happened. It was bad, and it was messy, and it was awful for _everyone_ involved. Now stop shouting."

"To betray the ones you love is the highest shame! How could he have done this?! How could he have allowed the passing pleasures of ale and wine to so overwhelm him?! To distract him from his love?!"

"Have you even been listening to me? It is _not_ that simple!"

"For love, it is!"

A drawn-out, exasperated groan. "Oh lord…"

"**_No!_** Were it I in his place— Jane, my love for you could overcome any challenge. I would **_move mountains_** for you, will you tell me Stark loves his loves any less?! I cannot believe it, I **_will_** not!"

"**ENOUGH**! Thor, **stop** with the tantrum!"

A brief silence.

Sheepish, hesitant: "Jane, I do not understand this."

A resigned sigh. "What is it that doesn't make sense?"

"I do not understand how a man can love so fully and yet have his love be meaningless. Love is the greatest force in all the worlds, this is known. Love conquers all, it overcomes all barriers, is this not true? When one loves another, no matter what obstacle may oppose their happiness it is **_never_** without hope. Love, accepted, may heal any wound, soothe bitterness, revenge, cure even hatred, so how, how could he not, not see, how could he not…did he not love enough? I—I do not understand it…"

A soothing, steady voice: "…Are we still talking about Tony?"

A pause. "…Loki."

"Mm-hmm. I thought so."

"My brother lies languishing in prison, and I cannot understand it. I _loved_ him, Jane, as dearly as if he were my own blood, why would he not _see_? How could he not accept what I offered him, accept our love, our forgiveness? _Why_ would he not let me help him, let me _fix_ him?!"

"Oh, Thor, honey." Frustrated, almost amused. "You know I love you, baby, but that is the dumbest bullshit you have _ever_ said."

"W-what?"

"Loki should have 'let your love fix him'? Are you _serious_? Thor, where was your love when _all_ your friends treated him like _crap_ your whole lives? When your dad _lied_ to him, _constantly_, trained him from infancy to believe his own people were horrible monsters who should be _exterminated_?"

"Our father loved Loki, loves him still—"

"Your dad _never_ treated you two equally, and you _know_ it. You just don't want to admit it. Odin _always_ favoured you over Loki, and you weren't any better. No, don't you dare interrupt me. Think about the way you behaved, the way you treated him when you were young! You've told me stories that made me seriously concerned, Thor. I love you, I really do, but you were _not_ good to him.

"He worked just as hard on his magic as you did on your fighting skills, and he was good, he was really good! He was skilled and talented and instead of appreciating him, and being proud of his efforts and hard work, you just mocked him because you thought that what he chose to do, what he _excelled_ at, wasn't good enough, wasn't as good as the things _you_ liked to do. Just because his talent was different from what yours, that doesn't mean it didn't have worth or value! But that's the problem with Asgard culture, isn't it?

"If something's not loud and bold and stereotypically 'manly', it gets treated like it's completely worthless. There's no appreciation for art, or science, or, or _intellect_, I mean Loki was _clever_, he was smart, _really_ smart! Like, supergenius smart! But because he wasn't delighted by swinging a big sword around, he was treated like a second-class citizen in his own home, just for being who he was. You claim to love him so much, but you never respected him. You didn't love him for who he really was if you kept shaming him for the way he chose to live his life.

"Now, I'm not saying that you're to blame for what he did; you're not. He was a grown man, he made the choice to do evil on his own, and he has to face the consequences of his choices himself. He's twisted, no doubt about it. But he wasn't born that way. You helped shape him into that man by alienating, ostracising and shaming him for everything that made him _him_, everything that made him unique. And you have _never_ taken responsibility for that. So I don't want to hear you talk like that again. Got it?"

The rustle of braided hair, a giant head nodding. The soft pattering splash of the fall of tears.

"I did not—I did not know…"

All ire expended, compassion returning: "You knew, you just…didn't want to see it."

"How could I…" Choked out. "How **_could_** I?!"

"It wasn't all your fault. You were raised to behave that way. But maybe now you can do something to change it."

"Do you…do you think he will ever forgive me?"

"Maybe. You can always try to make amends. And even if he doesn't, this isn't something you should fix for him or anyone else, it's something you should do for _yourself_, to be a better man."

"I will." Sudden resolution, strength filling his voice. "I will return to Asgard at once, and speak with him, and make my apologies. Perhaps he will even consider trying to redeem himself if he sees me willing to repent of my sins against him!"

Pleased, surprised laughter. "That's a great idea, baby. Not right now, though, okay? We need you here."

"Ah! Yes. Of course. I will wait until this crisis has passed. Perhaps the Son of Coul will have need of my assistance!"

"Thor, wait, honey, where are you going, you can't just—wait, _wait_!" Muffled, following heavy footsteps out into the hall.

...

"You do know we can't _actually_ stay up here forever, right?" Whispered into the dark.

A muffled reply, voice sleep-addled: "Why not?"

"Clint…"

A sigh. "Yeah, I know."

Silence.

After a moment: "I kinda wish we could, though."

"…Yeah, me too."

"How long do you think we can get away with?"

"Well, Phil said 'a few more days' this morning, so I figure we can stretch that to a week before he gets really pissed."

"How pissed are we willing to make him, though? Because I think—"

"**_Go back to sleep_**, Clint."

Another long silence.

"Tasha?"

Controlled: "_Yes_, Clint?"

"…What do you think's gonna happen?"

After a pause: "I don't know. Nothing good, probably."

The rustling sound of a man readjusting his position.

"You're pretty shitty at being comforting, you know that?"

A sad chuckle. "Sorry. It's hard to be optimistic late at night. Come here…"

More rustling of fabric, the whisper of skin pulled close together, the sigh of a hand run comfortingly through close-cropped hair.

Whispered, with tenderness: "It's gonna be fine. _We're_ gonna be fine. I promise."

"…how do you know?"

"Because I know what's going to happen."

"Tell me."

"…You sure? It's gonna get worse before it gets better."

"I'm sure. I want to know what you think."

"You faker. You already know what I think, your vision's just as good as mine."

"Tell me anyway. I want to hear you say it."

"Fine. Tony's going to spend a couple weeks, maybe longer, maybe even a month or so, getting low; he's gonna be drunk and nasty and make life very very unpleasant and difficult for everyone around him. And then eventually he'll hit rock bottom and realize how fucked up he's acting, and his brain will catch up with his ego and he'll clean up his act."

"You really think he'll just…figure it out?"

A whisper of fabric and skin as she shrugged. "He might. He is pretty smart."

"Sometimes."

"He _is_ a genius, whatever else is wrong with him."

"Tasha, he's only a genius when he feels like it."

A huff of soft laughter. "You've got a point there."

"What if he doesn't, though?"

"Then…then we'll figure something out, okay?"

"Like _what_?"

"I_**don't know**_, Clint. Something."

Another pause.

Muttered quietly: "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For dumping all my insecurities on you and making you reassure me."

Affection in her voice: "We reassure each other, Clint. That's what love is."

"I thought love was for children." Teasing, playful.

Sardonic: "We are hiding in the air vents because we don't want to deal with our friends' relationship problems. I think we qualify right now."

Quiet laughter fading into anxious stillness.

...

"How is he?"

"How do you think?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Is he, you know…"

"Conscious? Occasionally."

"You know you don't have to do this, Pepper."

"I really do, though. I mean, it's my job, Stark Industries is my responsibility and he sort of comes with the package. Besides, taking care of Tony's a habit for me by now, you know that."

A soft chuckle. "Yeah, I know. I meant, you don't have to do this _alone_."

"Thank you. And I am glad you came by. But I've got a whole bunch of S.H.I.E.L.D. guys as backup and all of SI staff, too, so I'm not all alone. I'm delegating as much as I can. But I sort of do have to deal with him personally, he doesn't really listen to anyone else."

"I was thinking I might go have a talk with him."

"Oh, I'm not sure that's a good idea…"

"Look, I'm his best friend, I've known him as long as _anybody_, I think I can handle him. I just want to see how he's doing."

"Rhodey, listen to me. It's _bad_. I've seen him low, but I've never seen him like this before. If you're really set on seeing him, I'll let you down there, but you have to brace yourself for what you're going to find. And I have to be honest, in my opinion, I think it'll do more harm than good."

"…You really think so?"

"I do. Besides, in his current state, he probably won't even remember you were here."

...

A/N: I got Loki feels all up in this biatch and I AM NOT SORRY. Go blame ddoubletake it's all her fault anyway she shouldn't encourage me. The next chapter should be up faster than usual, I've actually been sitting on it for a while, it was one of the first things I wrote when I came up with the idea. It's short and I'm pretty sure it's going to make y'all hate me even more, if that's still possible. So, heads up. Also, my OTP = Clint x air vents


	13. Chapt 13: Hearts Break Slowly

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 13: Other Times, Hearts Break Slowly

They get by. They figure out how to be comfortable in each other's company without any snark and sass to distract them. They pretend they aren't tiptoeing around the hole in their lives, pretend that the silences in the evenings are comfortable instead of sad. They convince themselves that they are simply peaceful men, that they like the quiet, so they don't have to admit to themselves that, without the intensity and sense of adventure Tony brought them just with his presence, they don't have much to say. They pretend not to miss him.

Their sex life suffers. Without the mad genius to come up with mad ideas they will either love or bitterly regret—never in-between—their intimacy gets more and more vanilla, verging dangerously close to boring. The love and passion for each other is still there, but somehow the spark that once made them ache for each other's touch so desperately is gone. Bruce begins to feel that they make love more out of habit than desire. Steve can no longer hide the sad wistfulness in his eyes when they hold each other after they finish. They cling to each other in the night, pretending that the tightness they hold each other with isn't to compensate for the solid body missing between them.

Bruce can't sleep. It started the first night without Tony, but his insomnia grows nightly. He buys a nightlight for their bedroom. The blue glow helps him sleep, but the nightmares get worse. Steve is always there, always gentle and comforting and reassuring, but he can't distract Bruce the way Tony always could, can't take his mind off of the screams and smell of smoke and blood from some distant memory.

Steve buys an iPod on a whim. He fills it with a mix of the music he grew up with, and AC/DC, Metallica, anything else he remembers Tony listening to. He sees Bruce going through it one day, sees pain and loss and grief creep onto the man's gentle face. He buries the iPod deep in the back of a drawer and does his best to forget where he left it.

On Thursday nights they go out dancing. The people are kind, don't ask questions, and very carefully pretend; pretend not to recognize either of them, pretend not to stare when they grasp each other tight as they slow dance, holding on like drowning men, pretend not to notice a stray tear here and there. But on the weeks when Tony's latest exploits made the front page, they can hear whispers, see people look away too quickly when they turn around, know they were staring.

Months pass. They tell themselves they are happy.

...

A/N: am i kicked out of the fandom yet


	14. Chapt 14: Fury Makes Some Bad Decisions

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

A/N: Very sorry for the long hiatus! I was dealing with some IRL-family stuff that left me too emotionally drained to write angst. We should be back on our normal schedule now, though, and closing in on the conclusion as well!

...

Chapter 14: In Which Nick Fury Makes Some Bad Decisions

Nick Fury stomped into Phil Coulson's office, without knocking (as usual) and (also as usual) not bothering to shut the door behind him. He demanded, without preface: "Agent Coulson, where the hell are Barton and Romanoff?"

Phil, who had stood as Fury entered the room, answered calmly: "They're on assignment, Director."

"I didn't authorize any mission."

"I didn't wait for your authorization. They were seriously affected by what happened with Stark, to an alarming degree which they've been successfully concealing—even from us—and I'm worried about them. I gave them a job to take their mind off things and give them an outlet."

Fury sighed, rubbing his head in frustration. "What job?"

"Asia."

Fury looked up sharply. "_Excuse_ me?"

Coulson met his gaze with characteristic stoicism. "I told them to fix Asia."

"What do you mean, _'fix Asia'_?" Fury demanded, 'this better be good' dripping off each word.

"Exactly what it sounds like, Director. I gave them a standard kit and a drop zone in Shanxi and told them to fix it."

"And when you say 'fix it', you mean…"

"Make the Chinese government into a democracy. Get North Korea to feed their people and stop building nukes. Free Tibet. Boost the South Pacific economies. Use your imagination."

Fury looked horrified. "You sent just the two of them in there _by themselves_ to just _fix_ all the problems in the **_entire eastern hemisphere_**?! Without even any backup?!"

"You make it sound like it's some big deal. There aren't any more problems in the eastern hemisphere than there are in the western one." Fury sputtered as Coulson continued. "I figure, we let them kick around for a while, stretch their legs and see how much traction they get. Even without the whole mess with Stark's breakup, they've been on the leash too long; they need some time out of the office."

"Phil, you can't seriously think that two people can do all that, not even these two."

"I wouldn't underestimate them, Director. I don't expect them to make _too_ much progress, of course, but only because I doubt we'll leave them over there that long."

"Phil—"

"Besides, the mission's not the point. They needed a vacation, Director."

"A _vacation_. You're telling me that _fixing Asia_ is a _vacation_."

"For them, yes."

"Phil…"

"Would you rather have them here, sir?" Phil demanded, abruptly passionate. Fury recoiled under the sudden intensity. "Would you rather force them to watch their friends—their _family _—fall apart at the seams, powerless to stop it? Make them stand around here with their hands tied watching Stark self-destruct and implode and know they can't do a God damn thing to help him? I can't do that to them, Nick. I won't."

His frustration vented, he sat back down at his desk, collapsing into his chair. "They need something they can _do_. Something they can _fight_ against, a problem they can actually try to solve. They won't feel so helpless if they've got something to fight; the bigger and more insane, the better. So I gave them a job and sent them as far away from home as I could get them."

Fury wavered, then nodded assent. "You are keeping tabs on them, though, right?"

"Of course, Director. It's really not that big a deal, I can have them back in the US in under six hours if we really need them."

"All right, then." Fury swept out of the room, once again leaving the door open. In his wake, Phil sighed his most put-upon of sighs and got up to close it.

As he blew down the hallway, long coat billowing out behind him, Fury was oblivious to the reactions of those he passed. Apparently the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't quite as immune as Coulson to his infamous temper; agents were dodging into offices, _diving_ out of his path; one man even "duck-and-covered", shielding his face with a clipboard. He also missed the visible sigh of relief that ran through the hallway when he reached his destination, stomping into the elevator. He'd been terrorizing the headquarters for months now, with no end in sight.

The elevator dropped like a stone into the depths of the building, but his face remained impassive. He strode brusquely past the doors before they were fully open, into a dim hallway, where Pepper stood, arguing with someone on her phone.

"Look, you— James, I'm not kidding around about this, okay? You—" Fury stopped at a polite distance, cleared his throat. She looked up and flashed him a wan smile, mouthing _one minute_; he nodded, she turned back to her cell. "Absolutely not. No. No, James. Don't think— That's not my problem. I don't care. Just— I know that, Jim. I said I know. I'm handling it. Well, you'll just have to trust me, won't you? Listen, I have to go. I said, I have to go. No, I'm not putting you off. Because I wouldn't do that. Jimmy, how long have we known each other? Exactly. Just take care of your end and call me when you have some progress, okay? Okay. I'll talk to you soon. Okay. Bye." She shut the phone with a snap, sighing deeply and bracing herself for a moment before turning to Fury with a bright, false smile.

"Nicholas, hello!"

"Miss Potts." He strode up to stand beside her. "Trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle," she replied, overly cheerful. "What can I help you with?"

"I think we're here for the same reason," Fury frowned.

Pepper grimaced, dropping the false cheer. "This is about that thing with the semi truck and the US Women's Gymnastics team, right?"

He nodded gravely. She sighed and marched off down the hallway, Fury trailing in her wake.

"Pepper, I understand that he's going through a tough time right now, and I empathize, I really do. But this is just going too far."

"I _know_ that, believe me. I've been putting out fires all week. What do you want me to do, put him under house arrest? 'Cause you've tried that before, and remember how well it ended?" She threw a sarcastic smile over her shoulder. "Tony's an addict, Nick. The concept of 'too far' doesn't register with him."

"Well, either way, I'm gonna talk to him." Fury scowled, setting his jaw.

Pepper sighed. "Well, I'm certainly not going to stop you. Good luck."

For the first time, Fury hesitated; his resolve seemed to falter. "I'll be frank, I was expecting a lecture on how it'd do more harm than good to have me yelling at him."

"That lecture presupposes that anything we do has any effect on him anymore." The flippant, sardonic tone in her voice just barely failed to conceal her deep-seated hurt and regret.

Fury furrowed his brow. "He's that far gone?"

She stopped dead, refusing to meet his eyes. The tremor in her voice as she answered showed him just how long she'd been holding herself back from breaking down. "Further, probably. I just…" She took a deep, shaky breath. "He's been…functional…for a long time. Even…like this, he's still thinking, still creating, inventing, but…"

Fury could see the wetness in her eyes when she turned to meet his gaze. "I think Steve and Bruce being around was the last thing anchoring him. I'm not saying they did the wrong thing, to leave, or that this is their fault in _any_ way, but without them—he's a mess, Nick. I never know what to expect, he has these insane mood swings that just…one day he'll be this wild party animal, causing hundreds of thousands of dollars of property damage, terrifying underwear models and making the front page of every tabloid, and then the next day he'll drop into this awful, dark depression where he's practically catatonic and honestly I can't tell you which mood frightens me more. And he's constantly drunk, _constantly_. I swear the last time I saw him sober was before Steve and Bruce left."

She breathed in, composing herself; Fury watched the strength flood back into her face, the vulnerability and uncertainty she had revealed once again hidden behind her iron-clad resolve. She flashed him a tight smile, embarrassed, before sweeping off back down the hallway. He followed her silently, thanking her meekly when she carded open Tony's lab for him.

"Good luck, Nick," she said again, and this time it was heartfelt. "I'll keep my fingers crossed that he'll at least be conscious. Let me know if you get through to him, okay?"

He nodded, she smiled, and she swept off down the hallway. He didn't watch her go.

The inside of the lab was…unlivable. Fury had been vaguely aware of Pepper sending cleaning crews through to combat the worst of the filth, but it was very obviously a losing battle. He was contemplating going back upstairs to fetch a gas mask, but decided against it; there were probably protocols to prevent someone from just propping the door open to get back in.

He studiously ignored the squeaking noises and hints of tiny, swift motion in his peripheral vision, in favour of scanning the room for the inventor. After about ten seconds he had used up his (always limited) supply of patience and snapped at Jarvis to "turn the damn lights on."

The sudden illumination was followed by a loud crash and a string of cursing from a far corner of the room. Fury followed the gruff swearing, finding Tony, barefoot and naked from the waist up, his sweatpants tattered and hole-filled, face overgrown and disheveled. He glared at Fury with bloodshot eyes from where he lay, sprawling and undignified, on the hard cement floor.

"You smell like a sewer," Fury stated flatly. Tony snorted humourlessly and rolled over. Fury watched, unsettled, as he dragged himself back up onto his makeshift cot. He wasn't as thin as Fury would have expected. He'd clearly gone to seed, clearly was not in any way taking care of himself, but he wasn't as skeletal as one would expect from a liquid diet; he even had a paunch. _Pepper must be feeding him; or liquor's just got a lot of calories_, Fury thought.

He sighed deeply. "Stark, we need to talk."

Tony snorted again. "Is this the part with the tough love? 'Cause I gotta say I'm touched," he rasped, squinting.

Fury smiled grimly. "Don't bullshit me. I'm not here to hold your hand. You had someone to do that, two someones, 'til you chased 'em off."

The glare Tony gave him should by rights have seared flesh from bone. "What do you want?"

Fury was instantly taken aback. Tony letting a comment like that pass without a fight? Worse, letting Fury set the terms for the conversation? Every instinct he had from decades in the intelligence game was screaming at him that something was wrong, **_really_** _wrong_, and not the "he's planning something" type of wrong—Stark wasn't that subtle.

But it was late, and Fury was busy and tired, and solving Stark's problems was so far from his job description it was in a different _time zone_, so he bulled ahead, neither knowing nor caring how much he'd regret doing so later.

"You know damn well what I want. I want you to stop destroying things, particularly things owned by taxpaying American citizens. I want you to stop bringing discredit on this institution by having your face plastered all over the news like some pathetic teen pop idol gone off the rails on cocaine. You want to destroy your own life, fine. It's not like I can stop you, and I'm pretty far beyond caring right now. So keep it to yourself and leave the rest of us out of it. Got it?"

Fury stopped his rant abruptly. He'd gone too far. He _knew_ he'd gone too far. He was tired, he was overworked, and he was taking out bushels and bushels of pent-up frustration—some related, some not—on an easy mark. He braced himself, ready to face down Stark's tirade and then eat crow and apologize if necessary, but to his great shock, Stark merely glared at him a few moments more before dropping his gaze and nodding sullenly. Fury let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.

He would later ruminate that it was then, that moment right there, that he realized exactly how bad things were for Tony and how far he had fallen. He'd spend hours thinking, turning it over in his mind, torturing himself with could-haves and should-have-dones, thinking that if _only_ he had paid attention to his instincts, to his gut feeling of how _wrong_ Stark's reaction was, he would have seen it all coming, could have stopped it, could have spared them all what was to follow.

But it was still late, and he was still exhausted and overworked, and fuck it, he was a fucking spy, he'd lied and stolen and killed and he'd done worse things than this before. If going way too far meant Stark would stop causing scenes in public and he'd have one less headache to deal with, he was willing to eat the guilt. So he just nodded resolutely, said "Good," and turned to walk away.

He had enough of a conscience left to turn around and mutter, self-conscious, "Is there anything…anything I can do? Anything you need?"

"I'm fine," Tony answered in a flat, dead voice. Then again, as Fury was turning away, so soft, so quiet he nearly didn't hear it: "I'm fine."

...

A/N: So I made myself cry writing this. Please, please forgive me, my darlings, but it's gonna get even worse before it gets better. I am so, so sorry.


	15. Chapt 15: Second Chances

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 15: In Which Natasha Romanoff Argues In Favor Of Second Chances

When Fury left Tony's laboratory that afternoon, he somehow couldn't shake the mental image. Stark looking so _defeated_, no comebacks, no arguments, no fire or spirit or _spark_ left in him… A long night of troubled sleep only compounded the problem. The next day, it was weighing heavily enough on his mind that he felt compelled to spread the load. Around lunchtime, he barged into Coulson's office to vent to a captive audience.

Coulson listened. Coulson nodded. Coulson remained impassive. Coulson waited very patiently for Fury to wear himself out and then charge off without waiting for a reply, which is exactly what he did. And then Coulson calmly and deliberately went through the drawers of his desk until he found a small, seemingly unremarkable cell phone with exactly one number saved in its contacts, dialed the number, and when the line connected, he said one word into the receiver before hanging up and putting the phone back into the drawer and going about his day as if nothing had happened.

Exactly five hours and fifty-eight minutes later, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton stepped onto the tarmac at JFK International and into the unremarkable black sedan waiting for them.

...

The knock on the door took Bruce and Steve by surprise. They certainly weren't expecting any visitors, especially not at this time of night; they'd already eaten dinner, for pete's sake. They traded a confused glance, making faces at each other; Bruce gestured emphatically to the calculations he was working on, spread over his desk. Steve sighed and set his quilting on the side table, reaching the door just as whoever was outside started hammering on it, impatient.

He yanked open the door, scowling, only to find an irate redhead glaring at him on the other side. Steve stared blankly down at her, long enough for Bruce to get anxious and call "Honey, who is it?" down the hall at him.

It took Steve a couple of tries to get sound to come out when his mouth moved, but Natasha only seemed amused by his surprise. "It's—it's Natasha, Bruce," he finally managed, not taking his eyes off her as he called back. In a quieter tone, he asked: "I thought you and Clint were out of the country for a while?"

"Phil called us back in." She breezed past him, down the hall and into their living room, throwing Bruce a cheery wave hello before collapsing into the same armchair Steve had just vacated. He installed himself in its fellow next to her as Bruce looked on, bemused.

"Why would Phil call you in? Is something wrong at HQ? I haven't heard from Fury or anything…"

"Oh no, it's not a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing. I want to talk to you about—hang on, is that a _quilting square_?"

"I'm trying a new hobby," Steve said defensively, bundling the cloth and thread into a drawer.

Natasha covered up a snigger. "You took up quilting? Seriously?"

"It's an American tradition," Steve muttered, glowering at her.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Nat, you wanted to talk to us about something?"

The humour vanished from her face. "Yeah, yeah I did." She took a deep breath. "Bruce, you maybe want to come over here for this?"

Bruce and Steve traded worried looks; Bruce came over to sit on the couch opposite Natasha, where Steve joined him, grabbing his hand to soothe both their suddenly frayed nerves. She looked back and forth between their faces for a moment before speaking.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself. "Look, I'm going to keep this brief, okay? I'm not asking you for anything, I'm not telling you to _do_ anything. I just have a couple of things I need to say, and then I'm going to leave and I won't bring it up again. Just…hear me out.

"First I need to make one thing clear. I'm not criticizing you, or blaming you for Tony's problems. But what I am saying is that Tony, right now, what he's going through, well; it's not _because_ of you, but it is your responsibility. Now before you get angry, I just—"

"Wait, what? What do you mean, what he's going through?" Bruce interrupted, trading an anxious glance with Steve.

Natasha wavered, confused, looking back and forth between their faces. She was searching for guile, or deception, or some hidden motive, but instead found only wide-eyed, unguarded concern. She shook her head, laughing.

"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable."

"What's going on?! Natasha, _what's_ unbelievable?" Steve demanded, frustrated.

"You are. You two…I can't _believe_ you two! I had a whole speech planned out, you know," she said, pulling a face. "All about how we're all responsible for _all_ the consequences of a choice we make, good or bad; and even if you know you did the right thing, anything bad that happens as a result of your decision is still your responsibility. It was very persuasive, I was so proud of myself. And here I am trying to find my footing 'cause I got all geared up for a war I wouldn't even have to fight. I swear…"

"Just tell us, what's going on with Tony? Is he okay?" Bruce interjected.

She propped her cheek on her elbow, smiling fondly at them with her head cocked sideways. "How are you even real? I should have known, honestly. I come here prepared to talk you into putting your anger to the side and be the bigger men, but you aren't even angry, are you? You hear he's in trouble and all you care about, all you can think about is 'how can I help him.' No grudges, no petty bullshit. All you want to know is if he's okay."

"_Is_ he?"

"You make the rest of us look bad, you know that?"

"Natasha. Please."

She sighed, her face becoming grave. "Phil called Clint and me back for a reason. Tony's…he's not doing so well. How much do you know?"

Steve shrugged. "We read the papers, we hear all about the things he gets up to."

She nodded grimly. "There's more." She leaned forward, her face serious. "I have it from Coulson that Fury tore him a new one yesterday afternoon. Went down to the lab, got in his face and basically told him that if he was going to self-destruct he can, but keep it to himself and stop embarrassing the Initiative by going out in public."

"It's hardly the first time Nick's lost his temper," Bruce shrugged. "So, they got in a shouting match and things went south?"

Natasha shook her head. "No. Worse. Tony didn't fight him. Didn't even answer back, just caved without so much as a single sarcastic comment. You can't tell me there isn't something seriously wrong there."

Bruce and Steve's eyes went wide. They traded yet another look before Bruce spoke again. "That's…that's not good, no."

"Obviously. So, here I am," she said, spreading her arms dramatically.

Steve licked his lips fitfully and cleared his throat. "Yes, obviously that's a very bad sign, but… why _are_ you here?"

"I thought you might like to know what's going on," she deadpanned, annoyed.

"Yes, but… You said you weren't here to ask us for anything, but you wouldn't _be_ here—you wouldn't have brought all this up in the first place if you or Director Fury or whoever didn't want us to _do_ something about it. So what is it exactly you want us to do? We haven't seen Tony in months, not since we…left."

"I'm _not_ here to ask you for anything," she repeated firmly.

Bruce prodded gently, "…but?"

She sighed. "But. You two are the only ones who have a chance of helping him. He's too far gone for anyone else to get to him, not even Pepper. You're the only things left he cares about, even a little bit. Clint and I can't reach him; neither can Phil, or Fury, or Rhodes, or _anyone_ but you. I wouldn't ask you for this. It would have to be your choice."

"The last time we tried to reach him, it didn't go well." Steve pointed out, sadly.

"I remember," she said softly. "But I think it's different this time. When you hit rock bottom, there's only one way to go, right? And I think—I think Tony's there. I think he's gotten as low as he can go, no more depths to sink to."

She looked down at her folded hands. "He's hurting. He's hurting bad. In a way I… I've been there, okay?" She looked up into their eyes, her face impassive. "I know that kind of pain. It took me years to recover from it after I…after S.H.I.E.L.D. got me out. Well, Clint got me out, really." She favoured them with a small smile.

"My point is… When you're in that kind of pain, you will do anything, _anything_, to make it stop. And yes, Tony is doing it to himself. But he _can't_ stop. It's part of being an addict. I doubt he even really understands where the pain is coming from. To you or I, on the outside, it seems so obvious, but that concept, the idea that he would have the option to just _stop_, it's not _there_ for him. Like there's some sort of mental disconnect. I'm not saying he _can't_ help himself, I'm saying he _won't_. I know with absolute certainty it won't happen. But I think you can get to him, and I think he's finally ready to listen."

"And—and if he's not?" Steve swallowed, his throat constricting. "We can't go through that again, Natasha. We can't have our lives, our _hearts_ torn apart again if he still says no. We've moved on, we've got a life built for ourselves here. We're happy."

"No, you're not." She rubbed a hand over her tired eyes.

"Yes, we—how would you know?" Bruce sputtered.

"Because you love him," she replied, simply. "You love him. You can play house and pretend everything's fine but you won't ever be happy like this, because you love him, and he's in pain. You love him, just like I do. Oh don't give me that look."

Both Bruce and Steve were staring at her with bugged-out eyes. She glared at them. "_Not_ in the same way, the I-want-my-parts-to-touch-your-parts way, _obviously_. But…we're family. A severely fucked up, incestuous and dysfunctional family. So yes. I'm breaking out the L-word, try not to faint."

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, my point is, you don't just _forget_ about the people you love. No matter how much you try to wallpaper over it, that doesn't just go away. And you two are pretty obviously overcompensating. I mean, _look_ at this place." She gestured around the apartment.

"You're like a gay Norman Rockwell painting. You're _trying_ too hard, can't you see that? You can't just fill up the hole that all three of us know is there with doilies and armchair slipcovers and—and _quilting squares_. This **_isn't going away_**, don't you get that? Yes, love will fade, sometimes, you get over people, but as long as you're still in love with them, their problems are your problems. Their pain is your pain. And Tony is in pain. He needs you and he's in agony without you. He's a broken man."

She took a deep, shuddering breath, closing her eyes. After a moment, she continued. "I know about pain, and I know about regret, and I know about—about being in situations where there _isn't_ a right answer. So I know this isn't one.

"I'm not saying he deserves a second chance. Lord knows he's had plenty of them already. But I think you should give him one anyway because it's not about what he deserves. It's about what people need. And he needs you, and more importantly, you need him too. Love is like that."

After a long silence, she sighed deeply and carefully got to her feet. "Look, I have to go. Just…just think about it, okay?"

The truth in Natasha's words, and the deep, genuine pain and sadness in her eyes struck a chord with each of them. After she let herself out, the silence endured nearly an hour as they sat, motionless, staring into space and thinking, before Steve found the strength to speak.

"I think she's right."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I just…" He sighed.

Bruce's face was solemn and pensive. "It won't be easy, Steve. You know that."

"I do, but…I think I understand what Natasha's getting at. I know we were right, and I believe we did the right thing. He made his choice; get help with the drinking or we would leave, that's what we said, and backing down wouldn't have made him recover. I don't have any regrets about that, and I _don't_ feel guilty about any of this. But…we broke him. We really did. And if there's even the slightest chance that we can get him back, that he can be the man he was again, I think we have to try."

Bruce had a sad half-smile on his face. "You know you're rationalizing, right?"

Steve matched his smile, gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah, I know. I just miss him, Bruce. I miss everything about him, the attitude, the wit, the inventiveness, that childish glee, the way his face would just _light up_ when he was happy… We're not complete without him."

His lips quivered. "We're not _happy_ without him. We pretend, but we both know there's no light, there's no _colour_ in our world without him. We need him, Bruce, and I'm tired of feeling so empty, so incomplete. I just want this to be over. I want him back." A single tear ran down his cheek.

Bruce nodded, slowly. His eyes, too, were moist as he replied, his voice choked with long-suppressed emotion. "Yeah, me—me too. I can't— Yeah."

Steve nodded, stood stiffly and stretched. "It's late. We'll go tomorrow, what do you think? No fanfare, no big event, just—just go talk to him. Tell him we're ready to try it again." He held out a hand to Bruce, who stood and clasped it tight, weaving their fingers together and squeezing.

Bruce nodded agreement. "Tomorrow."

As Steve let Bruce lead him down the hallway to their waiting bed, he felt a warm, hopeful glow begin in the pit of his stomach. For the first time in months, he felt like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be all right.

...

A/N: HAHA CLIFFHANGER  
HAHAHA  
I'M SUCH AN ASSHOLE

Edit: I thought of a better ending in the shower this morning. Let the old one be lost to the annals of history. I'm still an asshole, though.


	16. Chapt 16: Sunrise

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

/WARNING/ A/N: Trigger warnings for: suicide attempt and blood

...

Chapter 16: Sunrise

It was around 10:30pm that same night. Natasha had left Steve and Bruce's apartment about an hour before.

Pepper was more than halfway home, finally starting to relax, when she suddenly remembered something. She had some paperwork that she still needed Tony's signature on, and with all the chaos of the day, she'd completely forgotten. With a frustrated groan, she told Happy to turn around and take her back to Stark Tower.

She lay back against the seat, reclining her head and watching the streetlights go by. It had just stopped raining, and the world was still glistening, each yellow glow sparkling and glinting, fractured onto the pavement, as if sky and ground had been reversed. She closed her eyes just for the briefest moment, and then suddenly Happy was shaking her arm gently, calling her name.

She waved him off, chuckling at her own embarrassment, and trudged up the front steps to the warm glow of the Tower lobby. However, despite her assurances to Happy outside the building that she'd only be a moment, Tony was nowhere to be found.

After scouring every inch of his personal lab to no avail, she branched out, searching the closest machining and testing labs. A fruitless half-hour later, however, she was forced to conclude that Tony simply wasn't there.

Pepper stood in the hallway for a moment, thinking, fists propped on her hips as she pursed her lips in thought. As far as she knew, Tony hadn't been in his rooms—what _were_ his and his lovers' rooms—even once since Bruce and Steve had left. But…_where else could he be?_ she wondered. _Maybe it's a good sign, maybe he's starting to deal with things?_

But no matter how much she tried to stay positive, she couldn't even convince herself. She spent the long elevator ride up to the master suite making a mental list of the next places she would check when she'd satisfied her own mind that Tony wasn't there.

She was silently praying that she wouldn't wind up spending the rest of the night organizing a police search as she opened the door. The feeling of _wrongness_ hit her subconscious before her waking mind realized that something was amiss.

It was the smell.

The air in the room was thick with a heavy, rotten, metallic smell that Pepper could not quite place. She stepped gingerly inside, keying the lights up and looking warily from side to side, scanning the room. Everything _looked_ normal. Well, mostly. The room was too clean, practically pristine, although she put that down to the cleaning crews that were still regularly scheduled to come through. Still, there was something about how tidy the place was that she found deeply unnerving.

One thing out of place caught Pepper's eye: a dark rectangle, laid carefully on the floor in the precise center of the room. She found herself inescapably drawn to it, crossing the room step by slow step, until she could crouch and lift it delicately from the floor.

She stared at it unseeing for a long moment, tension and shock and stress barricading its meaning from her comprehension. Understanding dawned at the same moment she heard a muted whimper coming from the bathroom, and she was on her feet in an instant and _running_ towards the sound, a mad desperate sprint, eyes blown wide with fear. Glass shattered as the picture frame hit the ground.

She flew to the bathroom entrance, tripping and catching herself on the doorjamb. When she saw what was inside, her heart stopped and time froze. Her brilliant mind worked at the speed of light, cataloguing every sight, every smell, and every sensation, taking note of every detail.

He was clean. Unshaven, still, but the layers of filth and grime scrubbed away, nothing but pink, raw skin visible beneath his clothes. His clothes; those too were clean: worn jeans, comfortable, familiar, and what _looked_ like one of his band t-shirts. No way to tell which one, even if she'd been able to care about something like that; he was on his front, face turned away from her, his mop of dark hair still damp—not all from water.

That was what really captured her attention. The source of both the smell and the pervading sense of _wrongness_ in the room was spreading, vivid against the white tile, from Tony's wrists where he lay face down in a pool of his own blood. The straight razor he'd used to slash himself open was a few feet away, discarded and forgotten, its purpose served.

Time unfroze. Pepper's heart began to beat again.

She threw herself forward, hauling him up to clasp him against her chest, grasping for towels, toilet paper, _anything_, pulling down the vanity in her desperate clutches to find anything, _anything_, to try to stop the bleeding, grappling with wads of whatever her snatching hands found within their reach as she **_screamed_** orders to JARVIS to summon an ambulance, get security, get someone, _anyone,_ _hurry, __**please!**_

It took thirty seconds for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s First Response team to reach her side, three minutes beyond that for the first ambulance to pull up outside the building. With every second, Tony's heart threw out another ragged beat, sending a new thrill of fear and hope and despair up Pepper's spine.

Every pump of his heart meant more blood lost when he had none to spare. But each beat meant he was still living.

The EMTs bundled her aside like hand-me-down clothes, her role fulfilled and use exhausted. She watched in stunned, slow-motion silence as they trussed Tony up, shouting to each other in some strange code—or was it English after all, and language had simply abandoned her?

Either way he was strapped to a gurney and they were barreling from the room, leaving her—tearstained—and a few others in their wake. Phil was there. He caught her arm when she lost her balance. It took a moment for his voice to reach through the haze of her shock.

"Miss Potts. Miss Potts."

"I—yes, what? What?"

"I said, do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?"

He looked so calm. How could he be so calm? She stared, mystified. Hadn't he noticed the world ending?

"Pepper?" There it was. Her first name, and a tremor in his voice. He was human, after all, and she hadn't lost her mind. The world couldn't end, she had too much work to do.

She drew herself up. Back to work. "No, I—I'd just be in their way. I'll have Happy follow behind them."

He nodded. "Do you want me to walk you down?"

She braved a smile, shook her head. "I can make it. You go. You've got things to do, right? There's got to be protocols, or something, for this?"

He gave her his signature half-smile in return. "Fuck the protocols." She would have been shocked to hear him swear, if she had any shock left to feel. "Someone else can handle the paperwork for once. I've got an errand to run."

She nodded. "Hurry. He'll need them, if—_when_ he wakes up."

And he was gone, and she followed him out of the room, on steady, strong legs, unwavering. The picture frame lay forgotten behind them, on the living room floor where she'd dropped it.

Three men stood, smiling and laughing at the camera. Tony in the center, the place he always claimed; one arm hooked around Bruce's neck, the other circling Steve's waist, drawing them both in close. On the now-shattered glass he had scrawled two words.

"_I'm sorry_."

...

Bruce awoke with a yell from a nightmare, only to find that the pounding and shouting was real. Steve was already rolling out of bed, pulling a t-shirt over his head; Bruce followed him out into the hallway, shaking the dream from his eyes.

They reached the door and Steve yanked on the knob. Coulson got in one last hammer before it was all the way open, throwing a deathglare over his shoulder at their nosy middle-aged neighbour, who had come out of her flat to stare at him, clutching her cat and her fuzzy bathrobe tight.

Bruce spoke first, his voice still thick with sleep. "Phil, what in the hell?"

Coulson's face was grave. "There's…been an incident.. Put your shoes on and get in the car. I'll explain on the way."

The ride to the hospital was tense. Coulson told them what happened, in plain, simple terms—just the facts—then faced down their barrage of questions, telling them everything they asked to the full extent of what he knew, never once taking his eyes from the road. But his meager supply of information was soon exhausted.

The remainder of the drive was spent in ashen-faced silence, the two men in the backseat gripping each others' hands. They clung to each other as though the connection in their hands was the only thing keeping one of them from vanishing, or being ripped away; as if the pain shooting through their bones from the crushing grip was their anchor to the world, grounding them, the only proof they had that it wasn't another nightmare, that yes, this is happening, this is real.

When they reached the hospital, Coulson—bless him—didn't bother to park; he pulled up in front of the entryway, barely coming to a stop before they were charging up towards the building and into the main door.

They bolted through the entryway, nearly bowling over an old man with an IV stand; Steve, the eternal Boy Scout, stopped to set him back on his feet before following Bruce's mad dash towards the ER. They very nearly wound up in a shouting match with a nurse who tried to keep them out, but Pepper showed up in the nick of time and ushered them through with a combination of her Power of Attorney and sheer intimidation.

The next hour passed in a daze. Pepper relayed everything the EMTs, nurses and doctors had told her, but it wasn't much; until Tony got out of surgery, there was nothing to do but wait. Finally, at long last, the trauma surgeon appeared, worry etched in every serious line on his face.

Steve didn't remember much of what the doctor said. Somewhere between "_stable, but…_" and "_we've done all we can for now_", his brain just shut down in self-defense and the rest of the doctor's speech was just a toneless buzz. When the doctor left, he found a chair and anchored himself there, clenching his hands together in fists, his body rigid.

The hospital staff tried to make them leave—something about visiting hours and regulations—they even withstood Fury's famous stinkeye and Pepper's most virulent Look. Bruce finally managed to convince the staff that they would _not_ be removed by faking the beginnings of a Hulk appearance; the orderlies avoided their wing like the plague from then on.

From his chair, Steve was dimly aware of comings and goings. Once or twice someone tried to speak to him, but someone swooped in each time to chase them off before his mute reverie could be broken. He vaguely remembered seeing Clint and Natasha circling in his periphery, before they orbited out of his view.

After God only knew how long, a light touch caressed his hand, relaxing the muscles he had clenched hard. He nearly jumped, looking up startled into Pepper's face; he hadn't noticed her sitting down next to him. He released the fist he'd been holding shut, blood flowing back into white knuckles.

"Is there news?"

"Nothing new." She rubbed the back of his hand gently. "He's stable, that's all they can tell us. They won't know more until he wakes up."

"_If_ he wakes up," Steve choked out.

"He will."

"You can't know that."

"I do." She smiled gently. "He's too stubborn not to."

That drew a watery chuckle from Steve, which disappeared almost as quickly as it came. They sat in silence for a while, until he began knotting his hands together again, twisting his fingers nervously. Pepper reached over and grabbed one of his hands, pulling it into her lap to cover with hers.

"How you holding up?"

He huffed a short, butter laugh and didn't answer.

"Steve, come on. Talk to me."

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

"Hmm? Speak up, sweetie, I can't hear you."

Steve gritted his teeth, spitting out his words from his clenched jaw. "It's my fault."

"Oh, honey, no!" Pepper leaned in towards him, clasping his hand even tighter, concern on her face. "You can't blame yourself for this, not ever!"

"Why not?" he demanded, staring at the floor. "We did this to him, Bruce and me. We put him in that bed."

"Steve, no. No. Look at me." She gripped his chin, trying to turn his face up to hers, but he jerked his head away. Pepper sighed and took back hold of his hand. After a moment, Steve started talking again.

"We made a choice. We left him there, all alone, with no— What did we _think_ was going to happen?!"

"Steve—"

"**No.** We have to own this. We made a _choice_, Pepper."

"And what about Tony's choices, Steve?" she exclaimed, exasperated. "Is he just some mindless dress-up doll? A prop to fill a role in _your_ life? Doesn't he have his own story? He gets to make his own choices, Steve, and you're not responsible for them."

"I should have known," he insisted sullenly. "I knew how messed up he was. We abandoned him. No matter what he did, we're responsible for _that_."

She sighed again. "You've been talking to Natasha, huh."

He shifted in his chair, his glance darting around the room before settling on his shoes again. "How d'you know that?"

"It's my job to know things. So she came to see you?"

"Yesterday evening, yeah."

"And? What did she say?"

"Not that much. We talked about Tony. She told us that something'd happened with Fury and how—how she could tell we weren't really happy and she thought we should give Tony a second chance."

"…and?" she prompted, after a moment.

He continued reluctantly: "…and she started by—I mean she _thought_ she'd have to start by convincing us to want to help him."

"What do you mean?" Pepper asked gently.

"I don't know, it was…she was talking about responsibility, okay? How when we make a choice we're responsible for _all_ the outcomes. Whatever we do, all the results—the good and the bad ones—are our responsibility and we can't just walk away from them. We chose to leave him all alone. We _abandoned_ him. This is our fault."

She sighed again, squeezing his hand. "Steve, honey, listen to me. This is _not your fault_."

"Pepper—"

"Shush." She took a deep breath. "Steve, I know how hard this is for you, believe me, and I understand the impulse to try to make sense out of something so senseless by making it your fault, but it isn't. Tony's drinking wasn't your fault, and his unhappiness wasn't either."

"But I knew that he—"

"_No_, Steve."

"Natasha said—"

"Natasha is a very intelligent person, Steve, but she has a lot of anger. And a _lot_ of regret. And that makes her very…harsh. She takes things like personal accountability very seriously, and sometimes I think she takes it a little too far. It's her way of coping with the bad things in her past, the things she regrets."

She had his full attention now; he was watching her with clear blue eyes, wide with childish uncertainty, as she continued. "Now, I agree with the idea, to a certain extent. People _should_ hold themselves accountable for the choices they make and the effects those choices have on the world around them. But you're not responsible for someone _else's_ choices, and you're _definitely_ not _morally_ _required_ to tailor your life to influence the people around you to _make_ them make good choices!"

Pepper cupped his cheek with one hand. "Steve, no one is responsible for someone else's happiness. You should not feel guilty for taking care of yourself, or standing up for yourself. Tony's behaviour was toxic, and he was _not_ alone, not even after you left. He was surrounded by people who loved him and wanted to help him and _it did not make a difference_. Even if you had stayed, you can't know that anything would have been different. And even if it would have changed things—" she shook her head, dropping her hand. "Would you tell someone to stay in an abusive relationship because their partner threatened to hurt themself if they left?"

Steve looked horrified. "That's not— Tony wasn't—"

"I know, sweetie, I know, but just think about it, okay?"

"It's not the same thing," he protested weakly.

"It's on the spectrum. You don't have an obligation to stay with someone who's hurting you—whether deliberately or not—" she forestalled his protestations with an upraised hand— "just for the sake of their well-being. You can't make yourself morally responsible for someone else's choices. This is _not your fault_, Steve. But you can take a shot at fixing it. When he wakes up."

"If."

"Steve…"

"All right, when." He sighed deeply, squeezing her hand in silent thanks.

They sat together for a little while, taking comfort in each others' company. After a time, Steve broke the silence. "Have you seen Bruce?"

"I saw him pestering the doctor a little while ago, trying to get more information. I'm sure he's fine."

"What _did_ the doctor say, exactly?"

She smiled. "You were pretty out of it, huh?"

He huffed a brief laugh in return. "Yeah, I guess."

"He's stabilized, but in a coma. The doctor said it'll be a while before we know for sure if he's going to pull through. They said if he dies, it'll be tonight. If he's still alive by sunrise, he'll make it."

A long, shuddering breath. "So we wait and see?"

"We wait and see. I believe he's going to live; but Clint will be the first to know."

That got her a look of overwhelmed confusion. "Wait…what? Clint will—what does he have to do with—how would he know?"

She fixed him with a gentle, teasing smile. "Because he's perched up on the roof, watching for the sun."

Steve found himself smiling back, to his great surprise. "Of course he is. I bet Natasha's up there with him."

"Wouldn't be surprised."

"That's kinda…sweet."

Another long silence.

"You've got blood on your shirt." He plucked the fabric gently; she grimaced.

"I'm aware."

They sat together silently. Time passed. The world turned.

At length, the sun rose.

...

A/N: It's all uphill from here, my sweets. I promise.


	17. Chapt 17: Resolutions Are Reached

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 17: In Which Resolutions Are Reached

The sun rose.

Steve was restless in his seat, shifting his weight from side to side as he waited impatiently for news. _Clearly_, Tony was still alive, or someone would have come and _told_ them otherwise already; so what the hell was keeping the doctors from coming out and reassuring them, for pete's sake?

He was vaguely toying with the idea of hunting down a nurse to demand an update on Tony's condition when a loud clang came from the ceiling. A vent banged loose, and Clint dropped gracefully from the air duct, followed by Natasha a moment later. She kicked the vent cover spitefully into a corner as they strode over.

"Sun's up, as of four minutes ago. Have they—" the last words from Clint's mouth were cut off by a loud, horrible, screeching _beeping_ noise from Tony's room, followed by a cacophony of shouting. Steve picked out a couple of phrases from the clamour, none of which he understood: "_40ccs of adrenaline!_" followed by: "_we can't, the arc reactor_—" then: "_get that crash cart in here __**now!**_"

Natasha snatched Clint around the shoulders and hauled him backwards, pressing them both to the side of the hallway in the nick of time, just barely avoiding being crushed by a nurse who came barreling out of nowhere, propelling a huge metal contraption with ominous wires and paddles hanging off it.

On Steve's other side, a voice whispered: "No." Then, louder, it cried out: "_No!_" Steve's arm was yanked forward as Bruce shot to his feet.

Steve wasn't yet too dazed and shocked to be startled. He didn't remember seeing Bruce sit down with them. His gaze traveled down his own outstretched arm to their interlocking fingers; had he reached out for Bruce instinctively when he came close, or did Bruce take his hand without him noticing? Either way, the tension in his arm eased as Pepper's soothing voice talked the other man back down into his seat; Bruce buried his face in his free hand, nearly crushing Steve's fingers with a strength he didn't know the other man possessed.

The shouting from down the hall got louder, but less distinct; Steve heard a high-pitched electrical whine, then someone shouting "_No, __**stop!**_" He felt a shudder run through Bruce's body, and something in him snapped.

He reached over, grabbing blindly for Bruce, and hauled him over into his lap. He buried his face in Bruce's neck, breathing comfort from his skin as they wrapped their arms around each other, hugging each other tight. Steve felt wetness on his neck and shoulder as Bruce shook.

At length, the shouting stopped. In the quiet, Steve heard Bruce snuffle. "This can't be it." The whisper was meant only for Steve's ears. "This isn't how it ends. It can't be." Steve had no words, no spoken comfort to offer; he could only squeeze Bruce tighter against his chest, tight enough to feel his heartbeat, tight enough to feel the swell of his chest as he breathed.

Pepper's hand on his arm shook Steve aware. Tony's surgeon—_the best in the state_, Steve dimly remembered being reassured—was walking towards them, rubbing a hand over tired, serious eyes. They gathered around him as he approached: Bruce and Steve leaning on each other for support, Clint and Natasha somehow managing to menace without trying, and Pepper grave, focused, staring the doctor down.

The doctor breathed a deep sigh, then—a smile. A tired, wan smile, but a smile nonetheless. And then he was speaking. "Well, he tried to get away from us for a minute there, but he's stabilized again, and it looks good."

Steve felt himself go limp and boneless as he collapsed back down into his chair. Clint exhaled, hard; Natasha clapped him on the back with an I-was-never-worried grin. Pepper wiped her eyes. Bruce spun in a circle, hands on his head, and then flopped backwards next to Steve.

He grabbed at Bruce's hand, planted a kiss on its back, then pressed it against his forehead, murmuring softly: "thank God. Oh, thank God."

The surgeon chuckled softly, swept up in their relief, and reminding Steve he was still there. Steve surged back to his feet. "Is he, is he awake? Can we see him?"

His smile disappeared at the question, but his voice stayed optimistic. "He's not awake yet, but in our experience with these cases, it's become a matter of when, not if."

"So, when?" Bruce interrupted, following Steve back to his feet.

"We don't know when," the doctor explained patiently. "It could be five minutes from now, it could be a few hours, it could be a week. It's completely unpredictable. What we do know is that he is off the ventilator, and he _will_ wake up. We won't be able to determine the extent…I mean to say, if there are any long- or short-term effects, until he is awake."

"Wait, wait…what do you mean, effects?" Clint interjected. "What, like brain damage?" Bruce and Steve's faces blanched white at the words. Natasha groaned, driving an elbow into his ribs. "_Tact_, Clint, _Jesus_."

The doctor sighed, his face grim again. "I won't lie to you, it's on the table. With the amount of blood he lost, there was a short period of time where his brain likely wasn't getting enough oxygen. It's a very low chance," he added hastily, holding up a hand to stop the oncoming panic from Bruce and Steve before it began. "It was a _very_ short time, and my prediction is that he'll be exactly the same, not a single IQ point lost. But we won't know that for sure until he wakes up and we can properly assess his condition. My advice is, you know he's gonna be fine, so go home, get some rest."

Pepper laughed. "Oh hon, they're not going anywhere. You might as well make up a bed for them." The doctor laughed uncomfortably along with her as she spun around, her eyes alive and bright; Bruce and Steve sank back down in their chairs, clasping hands again and trading tired smiles.

She had started issuing instructions, summoning assistants from thin air, only to be interrupted by another, less medical-sounding shouting match from down the hall. A security guard went flying; Clint and Natasha casually ducked as he flew over their heads.

Thor came thundering down the hallway, just barely managing to skid to a halt without bowling anyone over. Coulson came up behind him at a much more sedate pace.

"How is he?! The Man of Iron, is he well?!"

Clint was sniggering. The doctor had actually physically leaned back under the force of Thor's bellow, but recovered with impressive poise. "Mr. Stark is not awake yet, but he's going to be just fine. You're welcome to join his retinue," he waved his hand dramatically at the group surrounding him, "we may be clearing out the wing for them to move in permanently." He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving them gawping after him.

After a moment of stunned silence, Natasha let out a loud, snorting laugh. "I like him. He's got sass." She stretched up on her tiptoes to smack Thor upside the head. "What in the hell took you so long?"

"Forgive me! I did not tarry, I swear it, but the messages to Asgard were delayed!" Thor half-shouted, flashing his best puppy dog face.

Pepper rolled her eyes. "It's all right, it doesn't matter anymore. You're here now."

"It's good, it's…it's good," Steve smiled up at him, still drifting loose in relief. "It's good you're here. It's good we're all together."

Pepper reached down to stroke his forehead. "Yes, sweetie, it is." She straightened up, throwing a satisfied smile at everyone in range. "I'm heading back to the office, for now; Nat, you'll call me, when…?" Natasha returned her questioning look with a solid nod. "Great, thanks. And make sure those two get some sleep."

She nudged Coulson with her shoulder. "And you. Wipe that smug smirk off your face." She planted a swift peck on his cheek. "You did good, Phil. Get some rest. And thank you."

"Thank you, Miss Potts." The trademark half-smile he'd been wearing since the doctor announced that Tony would pull through remained firmly in place. As the clicking of Pepper's heels faded, he pushed his jacket back to prop his fists on his hips with a fond sigh. _Babysitting duty again_.

"All right, come on. Let's at least go in and see him, then you two—" aimed at Bruce and Steve, who had been getting dangerously close to snuggling and broke apart, looking guilty— "_will_ be getting some shuteye. We can take it in shifts to watch Stark and wake the others if he comes to."

He lead the way into the hospital room. Tony still looked fragile, and _very_ still, but there was colour in his cheeks and his breathing was calm and even. One of the nurses had brushed his hair.

There was a minor panic when Thor tripped over the cord of one of the monitors, yanking it from the wall and setting off an alarm, but it wasn't a big deal.

...

In the end, it was three days before Tony woke up. The warm afternoon sun was slanting through the giant picture window, and Steve was absorbed in sketching the way it fell on Tony's sleeping face. Bruce was buried in a book nearby, but not caught up by it enough to stop him from hearing Steve's soft cry when Tony's face twitched and his eyes fluttered open.

The book landed with a soft _whumph_ on the floor. Bruce crept up to the bed, moving slowly and smoothly, as if loud noises or sudden movements might spook Tony into bolting, or blacking out again. Steve was already leaning over the bed, grinning a bright, guileless smile from ear to ear.

It was Tony who broke the warm, tight silence first, with a half-hearted grin that tried for wry but was too sad and shame-filled to pull it off. His voice was hoarse and cracked. "Wow, I didn't think I rated heaven." He winced, resettling on the bed. "Okay, not funny. Hi, guys."

Steve ran a thumb over Tony's forehead, smoothing his hair back; he and Bruce huffed matching soft laughs. "Are you nuts?"

Tony gave as much of a shrug as he could manage. "Jury's out."

"_Jesus_, Tony." Bruce shook his head, tearing up. "What the _hell_ were you—I mean—how could you, how _could_ you—"

"Bruce, Bruce, don't," Steve cut him off. "That's—it's not the time for that, he needs to—"

"No, no, it's okay," Tony broke in. "I owe you that much."

"No, Tony, no, you don't, you don't owe us anything, it's okay," Steve begged him. "Just—just get better, okay? You just gotta get better."

"I will. I just—I want to, to, to, explain myself, okay? I do."

"Please…" Bruce breathed, repentant.

Tony took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just…"

"You don't have to be sorry," Steve pleaded, "you didn't _do_ anything," but Tony didn't stop.

"It hurt. It hurt too much. Everything hurt, the whole world was just…hard and dark and cold and I couldn't… _Breathing_ hurt. Thinking, moving, _anything_, I couldn't…"

He cleared his throat, choking up. "I hurt you. And I hurt myself. And I couldn't…facing that was too hard and too scary and hiding was…not _easier_, not really, but I didn't have the strength for anything else. And I just…"

He shook his head, his mouth a thin, pressed line. "I couldn't do it. I'm a coward and, and, and selfish, and everything else you've ever called me but I was so—I can't. I just, I can't live in a world—" his throat tightened around the word, but he pushed through— "I can't live in a world without you in it. I can't, I can't do it, I'm so sorry, please, just _please_, I can't go a-another—not one day—just, just one more chance, please, I'll get it right, I swear, please, just come back to me, I, I-I can't…"

Tony broke down crying. The tears streamed freely down his face, flowing over his disheveled, overgrown beard. He choked out through his sobs, "p-please, d-don't leave me, please, please…"

Bruce and Steve were crying too, fat drops splashing on their shirts and on the floor as they pressed in on either side of him, Bruce clutching his arm, Steve his shoulder. They were whispering reassurances, endearments, promises, but he couldn't hear them, he was too far adrift, lost in misery and hysteria.

"I need you, I need you, I need you so much…I'm so broken, so hollow, I'm empty without you, empty, I can't breathe I can't think I can't—I c-can't breathe…" He was hyperventilating, gasping for breath in short, ragged bursts. "It's like—l-like the light goes out of the world every t-time you're not h-here and I've been, been, been running around in the dark and there wasn't any l-light or future or h-h-hope without you there I'm s-so, I'm so so so sorry baby please please baby please come back please…" His speech devolved into a sniveling indistinguishable mess, the word "please" floating to the surface every now and then, like a drowning man flailing for air at the surface.

Bruce couldn't take any more. He threw his arms around Tony, hauling him up off the bed and pulling his head into his shoulder. Steve wrapped them both in a broad bear hug, half-sliding on the hospital bed to press Tony's back to his chest and threading his fingers into Bruce's hair.

After a long while, Tony's breathing slowed and the flow of words stopped. They could hear him hiccupping in the quiet that followed. At length, Bruce pulled back, letting Tony lie back against Steve's broad chest. He nuzzled into Tony's shaggy temple and placed a gentle kiss on the curve of his cheekbone. Steve snaked his arms around Tony's stomach, holding him close.

Bruce pressed their foreheads together, cupping the back of Tony's head. "Tony, we're here. We're right here with you and we're not going anywhere. We love you, we _love_ you, and we're not going anywhere. We're going to stay right here with you and you're going to get better and get help with your drinking and _everything_ is going to be okay."

Tony was crying again, his tears dripping between them, landing on the bedspread and soaking into Bruce's shirt as he continued speaking. "You're not alone anymore. You'll never be alone again, I swear. We're gonna figure this out, together."

Steve started murmuring low into Tony's ear. "We missed you so much, baby. So much. There wasn't any colour in the world without you, we were so empty." Tony was nodding now, verging on frantic, promising: "I'll make it right, I'll fix it, I will, I'll be better for you," until Bruce shut him up with a kiss.

They leaned back in the bed together, Steve pulling Tony close into him as Bruce snuggled up against his chest. Tony smiled, his first genuine smile in months, at the feeling of Steve's broad chest expanding and dropping as he sighed, contented. After a moment:

"Guys."

"Mmm?"

"_Guys_."

"Yeah, Tony?"

"…I'm hungry."

Bruce grumbled and fell off the bed in an undignified heap trying to find the call button for the nurse. Tony snorted and started smirking; Steve pressed his head back against the wall and laughed until he cried. A round face with close-cropped hair popped around the door, attracted by the noise, instantly splitting into a wide grin.

"You're up! Hey guys—" Clint vanished back around the corner, only to reappear with Natasha in tow, who already had her phone open, dialing Pepper's number. They were followed by the sound of a small herd of elephants, courtesy of Thor's determined refusal to learn such old Midgardian customs as "walking quietly" and "inside voices." He managed to accidentally unplug the same machine for the fourth time, earning a glare from the room, with the exception of Natasha, who simply rolled her eyes and plugged the damn thing back in, switching the alarm off with expert ease.

They went through the obligatory round of "it's good to see you up"s and "how are you feeling"s, and after the initial flurry, a comfortable silence fell. Steve stroked his hand absentmindedly along Tony's arm. A nurse came and went, dropping off a tray of sandwiches and milk cartons; Natasha smacked Clint over the head for pouting that none of the milks were chocolate.

The group ate in the same comfortable silence, broken only when Natasha started chuckling quietly to herself. When Steve asked what she was laughing at, she responded with a grin. "I was just thinking, I'm pretty sure this is the first time all six of us have been in a room together since…"

"Since the dinner party, right?" Clint finished.

"You know, I think you're right." Bruce was smiling back at her. "God, that feels like a lifetime ago. Crazy."

"It is," Steve agreed.

"It feels good," Tony offered. "It's nice. This is nice."

Steve smiled into the back of his neck. "It is nice. I've missed this, too."

"Are things gonna get back to normal?" Clint dodged Natasha's kick neatly. "_Drop it_, Clint," she growled, glaring, but he ignored that as well. "I just mean, are we gonna be able to do this stuff? Like we used to? Movie nights, hanging out, messing with Fury, that kinda stuff. When does it stop being all awkward and weird?" He didn't dodge the second kick, and doubled over clutching his knee.

"Nobody's saying it's going to be easy, Clint," Bruce sighed. "We're just…we're gonna take it day by day."

"Are you moving back into the Tower? Ow! Tasha, _stop_!"

Tony was fixing Bruce and Steve with a panicked, wide-eyed stare, swiveling back and forth between them. Steve swallowed. "I don't know, we hadn't really—we haven't talked about it. It just… This came up so fast, and we were just worried about Tony, and…I guess we forgot to think about that."

"Well, there's no rush." Coulson had been lurking in the doorway, unnoticed; he sauntered into the room. "The doctors want to keep Mr. Stark here in the ICU at least another week before they release him to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical facilities, so you'll have time to discuss it. Also, there are some tests they want to run, but it looks like the worst of our fears weren't realized. Speaking of which, it's good to see you awake. We've been worried."

"Aww, Phil. I'm touched. Knew you cared deep down." A glimmer of his familiar cocky grin flitted across Tony's face. "Pep with you?"

"She's grilling the surgeon. She'll be here in just a minute. For what it's worth, I think—"

"We're coming home," Bruce stated flatly, cutting him off. He turned to Steve and Tony. " We don't need to talk about it. We're moving back in. Well, I guess I can't speak for you, Steve, but I am, at least. Separate rooms, though, Tony. For now." He cleared his throat.

Steve was smiling. Tony twisted around, staring at him with big, hopeful eyes. Steve kissed him briefly before turning to Bruce. "How long will it take to pack, you think?"

Clint punched the air surreptitiously, Natasha smacked him; Coulson glared at them both until they quailed. Bruce chuckled.

"No more than a couple of hours, probably. I never really settled in, to be honest." He shrugged at their questioning looks. "I never felt that comfortable there. Steve puts these awful doilies all over the place, I don't know. And I miss my lab."

Coulson nodded with a satisfied smile. "I'll send a crew over to pack the place up and have a word with the landlord about releasing your lease. Where do you want me to have your things moved?"

"The master suite," Tony interjected before either Steve or Bruce could speak. His gaze shifted between them anxiously, gauging their reactions, as he continued. "It's home, our—_their_ home, and I'll be in the medical bay anyway, right? And I can stay in one of the guest rooms, when they, you know, let me off the leash."

"That…sounds good," Steve said tentatively.

"It's settled, then." Coulson turned and headed out into the hallway. The awkward silence he left behind was broken by Thor, who looked completely at sea.

"What is a…doily?"

Steve laughed quietly as Clint and Natasha tried to explain the benefits of decorative lace to a very confused Norse god. The arc reactor glowed blue through the thin hospital gown, and he could feel Tony's heart beating.

...

A/N: We laugh, we cry. We congregate outside my flat with torches and pitchforks. At least they're back together.


	18. Chapt 18: Skipping Steps to Recovery

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 18: In Which Several Steps To Recovery Are Completely Ignored

Bruce reached the end of the room and turned on his heel, starting back the other way at the same anxious gait. Steve looked up at him over the edge of his book.

"Bruce, come on."

"What the hell is taking so long?"

"You're not going to make it be over any faster by wearing a hole in the carpet. Sit down."

"It _should_ have been over _already_. He's probably picking a fight with the doctor or—oh God something must be wrong, what if something's wrong, what if they found something and—"

"_Nothing_ is wrong, he's already fully recovered, and this is just a formality. Will you sit down?"

Bruce hovered in place for a moment, then threw himself down next to Steve on the couch. "We need to talk about this," he grumped.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"We need a plan of attack, Steve. We need a unified front. Or he's going to come in here all smiles and charm and _innuendo_ and sweep us both off our feet again."

"I think you're overreacting." Steve turned back to his book. "We already decided, we're going to take it slow and, you know, build up trust and stuff. We made a resolution, remember? In the hospital?"

Bruce groaned, rubbing his face. "Yes, except that for _both_ of us, our resolve _flies out the window_ whenever we're in the same _room_ as him." He fixed Steve with a significant look.

Steve was pointedly ignoring him, a faint tinge of blush around his cheeks. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Bruce snorted.

"Oh, really. So you don't remember the nurse running into the room in a panic because his heart rate had skyrocketed on the monitor and she thought something was seriously wrong? And she didn't know we were in there with him? And you don't remember 'giving him a _hand_' a few times? Or more than a few, really?" Bruce raised his eyebrows.

Steve was blushing in earnest now. "That was a…a special circumstance. He couldn't, you know, for himself, not with his wrists the way they—I mean the doctor said, I was just helping him out," he stammered out.

Bruce snorted and started smirking. "Uh huh. Just being _completely_ altruistic, right?" Steve's face was burning bright red, and Bruce could see his cheek twitching. He chuckled softly. "So you agree that we're both complete pushovers, and we should come up with a plan?"

Steve glared determinedly at his book, refusing to look up. "What makes you think he's even going to come up here?"

"_Of course_ he's coming up here, and we need to decide how we're going to handle him."

"Do we _really_ have to 'handle' him?" Steve sighed, setting his book aside.

"Unless we want things to just go back to the way they were." Bruce shifted, cleared his throat. "Is that…is that what you want?"

"Is that what _you_ want?" Steve looked over at Bruce, fixing him with a wide-eyed, open stare.

"I don't—" Bruce sighed, flopping back to gaze at the ceiling. "I don't know what I want. The past month has been so—" his voice trailed off.

"It has, hasn't it?" Steve agreed, a small, wistful smile creeping onto his face. "Almost makes you want to…"

"Forget everything that ever went wrong?" Bruce finished.

"Yeah, kinda."

"We can't, though." Bruce scuffed the carpet with his toe.

"I know. It has been good, though. And he's been doing so well, he hasn't slipped once."

"He's also been under constant supervision from a whole host of doctors and nurses," Bruce pointed out. "He might not keep doing so well on his own."

"Maybe if he wasn't on his own…" Steve muttered, staring at the floor. Bruce sat up quickly, grabbing at Steve's forearm.

"No, don't. Don't start that again. It's not your job to—"

"I _know_ that, I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, Steve, and we're not going down that road again. A, Tony's drinking is not your responsibility. And B, if it's going to stick and he's really going to get better, he has to do it for himself, not because we made him, or held his hand and dragged him through it. We will support him, give him whatever help he asks for, but he's got to stand on his own. I will not watch you put all the weight of someone else's life on your shoulders again and drive yourself crazy with guilt if he falls off the wagon."

"I didn't mean that," Steve stated, quiet but defiant. "I'm not—I know, okay? I know. I just meant, I'm sick of dancing around it. What are we keeping our distance for, Bruce? We love him, we miss him, we want him, _why_ are we keeping him at arm's length?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Bruce insisted, but the waver in his voice was clear to both men.

"Why?" Steve challenged. "Because it's the smart move, the practical, _mature_ thing to do? Maybe I'm sick of being practical. Maybe I want to be stupid and immature and selfish and just do what feels good instead of worrying about what the right thing to do is. I don't want to have to be a leader with us, Bruce. I don't want to be Captain America all the time with you, worried if I'm doing the right thing, if I'm setting the right example. I just want to be _me_, to be _Steve_, and fall asleep at night with the men I love without all this other _bullshit_ in the way. Can't I—can't we do that?"

He turned a pleading stare on Bruce. "It's been a _month_, a week in the hospital and three in the med floor here. We made our point, we made a statement, everybody—everybody knows, Tony gets it, he's gotta do right this time. But it's a foregone conclusion, we can't say no to him for long and we both know it, so do we really have to go through the motions of making him 'win us back' when we both know that we'd _both_ rather just have him _here_?"

Steve wrapped a broad hand around Bruce's. "Haven't you ever done something you _knew_ was crazy and stupid and even maybe dangerous just—just because you couldn't help yourself, you just _had_ to try for it, no matter what you had to risk?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "I did, once."

"And?" Steve tried hard not to sound desperate. "Wasn't it worth it?"

"Well, it wound up turning me into a giant green ragemonster, so I guess that's a matter of opinion." Bruce made no attempt to conceal his bitterness.

"But if you hadn't, we never would have met," Steve reminded him gently, "and we'd all be Loki's slaves right now. Or dead, I guess."

Bruce met Steve's intense, beseeching gaze evenly, and withstood it only a few seconds before cracking a broad smile. Steve split into a wide smile of his own and they sat there beaming at each other for a moment with matching dopey grins before a soft knock on the door jolted them back to reality.

The door swung open almost immediately, to reveal the subject of their discussion, hovering sheepishly in the doorway, debating whether or not to invite himself in. Bruce and Steve hurriedly rearranged their expressions to look much more severe.

"Tony, you do know that the purpose of knocking is to ask permission to open the door, right? It sort of defeats the purpose when you don't wait for an answer," Bruce chastened, with a disapproving look.

"Sorry," Tony said hurriedly, recoiling. "I didn't think—I should just, I'm gonna, I should probably—"

"It's fine, Tony," Steve interrupted. "Did you need something?"

"Um, yeah," he stammered out. "Well, actually no, not _need_ exactly, I was just…" He bobbed on the balls of his feet nervously. Bruce and Steve traded secret, conspiratory smiles.

"Is this a social call, then, or did you want to talk to us about something?" Bruce yawned pointedly. Tony swallowed.

"It's not—it's, well. I just, I had my final appointment with Doctor Fisher," he grinned hopefully.

"Oh, was that today?" Steve asked, nonchalant. Bruce shot him a look that said "_don't overdo it_".

Tony didn't seem to have noticed. "Um, yeah. Just got done, actually."

"Well, that's great," Bruce said. "What did she say?"

"I'm good to go," Tony bounced up again. "Clean bill of health, fully recovered."

"Well, congratulations. You must be relieved."

"I guess." The bouncing was getting worse. "I'm just glad to be done with it." Bounce. "Glad to get away from their rules, mostly." Bounce. "They had me under all these restrictions, you know?" Bounce.

"Restrictions?" Steve was struggling to keep from laughing.

Bounce. "Yeah." Bounce. "You know." Bounce. "No working," bounce, "no late nights," bounce, "no red meat for some reason?," bounce, "it mostly wasn't too bad I guess," bounce, "but, they said, ah," bounce, "no 'strenuous exercise', you know?" He wiggled his eyebrows, comically suggestive. "So that was a pain." Bounce. "Kinda cramped my style." Bounce.

"I imagine." Bruce's voice was dry and sardonic; Steve hid a smile.

They let him stand in the doorway, juggling his weight nervously, for a little while longer before Bruce took pity on him. "Tony, why don't you come in, before I get a crick in my neck trying to talk to you?"

Relief flooded the inventor's face, and he hopped into the room. He hesitated momentarily, trying to figure out where he should sit, before Bruce and Steve through some unspoken agreement shifted to the side to make room between them. Tony lowered himself gratefully into the open spot, but remained nervous, jiggling one leg anxiously, his hands knotted together in his lap.

"So Doctor Fisher said you're all right?" Steve threw out to break the tension. Tony nodded.

"Yeah, she says I'm all healed up. Like it never happened."

"Somehow I doubt that," Bruce murmured, catching Tony's wrist.

He stroked his thumb along the soft skin of his forearm, catching it under the wide leather bracelet Tony had taken to wearing, and cast a glance over to Tony's other hand, now gripping the denim of his jeans. That wrist was covered too, a fancy watch with an uncharacteristically wide band.

Bruce exhaled softly. "Why do you cover them?"

Tony looked down, his face turned abruptly grave. "They're ugly."

Bruce ran his thumb in tiny, smooth circles over his wrist as Tony continued. "I don't—I don't like seeing them. And I don't like other people seeing them. People _stare_ at them, everyone does. I don't want—I don't like it."

Bruce caught the clasp of the bracelet with his thumb, popping the snaps open and tossing the leather strip carelessly to one side, exposing the jagged, fresh pink scar. Wordlessly, Steve did the same, pulling Tony's left arm towards him and gently stripping the watch off, laying it softly on the end table. Bruce looked down at Tony's bare wrist for a long moment.

Then, he carefully lifted Tony's arm up to his mouth. Breathed out, his warm breath ghosting over the tender skin, barely healed over and brand new. Pressed a long, soft kiss directly onto the site of the wound.

Neither man could miss the shudder that ran through Tony's body at the touch. Steve was filled with an inescapable _want_, and quickly, before he could second-guess himself, he reached out with his free hand. Brushed back the hair from Tony's forehead—trimmed back under control, but still as untamed as ever—and pushed further, rolling Tony's head back onto the couch cushions, buried his fingers in the back of his head and pulled him forward.

Their lips met in a frantic press; Tony moaned into Steve's open mouth, tangled their tongues together; the heat and wet and _taste_ he had missed so badly for so long intoxicating him, a sweeter drug for his senses than the smoothest liquor.

Bruce kissed his wrist again, opened his mouth, ran his tongue along the scar Tony had left there. He spent what felt like ages tasting the new skin, reclaiming that piece of his body, twisting the mark hurt and loneliness had left into an instrument of passion. Tony moaned again, wanton and needy. His fists clenched and unclenched, but he made no move to tense up or pull away from them; he stayed loose and pliable, trusting, leaving himself in their hands.

Wrapping his arms around Tony, Bruce crossed Tony's captive arm over his own chest, pressing himself up against Tony's body from behind. He leaned in ever so gently, dropping a line of soft kisses along the curve of his shoulder where his t-shirt was pulled down to expose it, before latching on to his neck just below his ear.

The noise Tony made nearly finished Bruce then and there, and he grinned against the sensitive skin as he sucked, tempering the pressure with nips of his teeth and soft flicks of his tongue. Tony was kissing Steve with a mad desperation now, any and all technique thrown to the wind as he tried to devour him, whimpering with each tug on his hair.

Tony hit his limit when Bruce let his free hand, the one not clutching Tony's wrist, drift downwards. The barest hint of pressure on his crotch, and he was tensing up, his whole body coiling in sudden spasms. They held him through it, Steve keeping his mouth latched to Tony's, breathing in every whimper and cry he let out, until his body relaxed and he went limp between them.

They sat together comfortably for a while, letting Tony recover, until he started to stir, then speak.

"I didn't mean for this to happen."

Bruce smiled into the nape of his neck. "Are you complaining?"

"No! No. 'Course not. I just…I just don't want you to think I came up here planning this, or expecting anything from you. I wasn't. I mean I didn't. I just…" he shifted, bracing his forehead against Steve's solid shoulder, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to tell you Fisher said I'm cleared, I thought you'd like to know, I didn't mean to… I should go."

He moved to extricate himself, but Steve gripped his shoulder and pushed him back down, holding him firmly in place. "You should stay," he said decisively.

"Mmm," Bruce agreed. "Stay. Stay with us." He nuzzled the back of Tony's head with his nose.

Tony seemed frozen in place. "Are…are you sure?"

"We're sure," Steve promised. "We talked about it."

"But you don't mean stay, like…together, right?" Tony pursued.

Bruce huffed a laugh, his breath ruffling Tony's hair. "Yes, together. We're willing to try again. If you still want to, that is?"

"I do! I do! I just…sort of thought you'd make me work harder for it, I guess," Tony admitted, sheepish. "There's a catch in here somewhere, right? Not that I'm complaining," he added hastily. "I'm in. I'm all in. If you've got conditions or anything, just name it. Anything."

"Not really conditions, exactly," Steve murmured. "You've got to keep up with your treatment, that's all. Go to all the meetings, whatever the doctors tell you to do."

"And no secrets," Bruce added. "You can't hide things from us. Ever."

"I won't," Tony whispered into Steve's shoulder. "I won't ever." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Thank you."

"It's okay," Steve reassured him. "You don't have to thank us. It's not a favour we're doing you, we wouldn't be doing this if we didn't want to. We just decided we were tired of being mature adults, so we're skipping all the slow, boring responsible parts about 'rebuilding trust' and all that, and jumping straight to the 'getting back together' part."

"…does it come with makeup sex?" Tony asked hopefully, after a beat.

Bruce started laughing. Steve pulled a disgruntled face, then swept Tony up in his arms and carried him, bridal style and protesting all the way, into the bedroom. Bruce followed them, after pausing briefly to signal JARVIS to put his lab experiments on hold. It didn't look like he'd be getting back to them anytime soon.

...

A/N: And now back to your regularly scheduled porn. Don't worry, I'm not skipping anything, things will heat up even more in the next chapter. Stay tuned.


	19. Chapt 19: A Good Time Is Had By All

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

Chapter 19: In Which A Good Time Is Had By All

Tony landed squarely in the middle of the bed with an undignified and satisfying thump. His indignant squalling was cut short by Steve, who practically pounced on him, strong arms and legs framing his shoulders and torso in one smooth motion; Tony's complaints were muffled by strong lips kissing him down into the mattress.

He felt Steve's lips moving against his, confident and sure, as smaller hands undid his jeans, caressing his sides gently as they eased the rough fabric down over his hips. He gasped into Steve's open mouth at the sudden feeling of a wet tongue along his inner thigh. Tony closed his eyes, arching back into the pillow and reveling in the touch of strong, calloused palms slipping up under his shirt.

The smaller hand slipped through the front of his boxers, pulling his cock free. A tremor ran through his body as a smooth, wet tongue licked slow, teasing stripes from base to tip.

Tony's eyes slammed open. He twisted away from Steve's kiss, pulling back from the brink of letting pleasure sweep him away, and scrabbled back with his heels until his back hit the headboard. He was blushing furiously red as he fumbled, tucking himself back into his boxers with his eyes fixed firmly on his own hands. Even after he ran out of things to keep himself busy, he kept fussing with his hands for a moment, twisting his fingers and clearing his throat before looking up, guilty, at Steve and Bruce, who had shrunk away to the foot of the bed.

They were wearing identical expressions of confusion warring with concern. Tony stared at them for a split second, deer in the headlights, before throwing them a self-conscious, apologetic grin.

"Hey, so, um…"

"Tony," Bruce started in, "if you don't want to do this, we—"

"No! I do! I do, I do, I just…" Tony stared down at his hands again, suddenly bashful. "Look, how do you want me?"

"…_What_?" Steve and Bruce's expressions were now almost exclusively confused.

"It's just…it's—it's been a long time, right?" Tony shifted uneasily. "And this is, you know, our first time since, well, since it all went to hell, which means it's basically like our first time period. And, I…I want to make it…good. For you. So, what… What do you want? I—this should be about you. I know, I fucked a lot of stuff up, and I can't give you back the time we lost, but I can…I can give you this. I want to make you feel good. So tell me what you want to do, okay? It's all about you. What do you want? How—how can I make this…special, for you?"

Steve chuckled fondly. "Tony, that's…that's actually kinda sweet. But we don't have to make a big production out of this. It's enough that we're together. We don't have any special requests."

"Um…" Bruce gave a little cough. "I do."

"You—you do?" Steve looked taken aback.

"Yeah, kinda," Bruce hedged, bashful. Tony pounced on the opportunity.

"What? Come on, babe, anything. What do you want? Is it that thing with the rubber and the garden gnomes, because I left my screwdriver downstairs and I don't know where we're gonna get ahold of a garden hose in the middle of New York—"

"_No_! Ugh, God no, we are _never doing the thing with the garden gnomes_, Tony, that's not even—no. Seriously, what is wrong with you that you would even come up with something like that? _No_."

"Okay, okay, sorry, I just thought, a little humour, take the pressure off, you know? Sorry. So, what is it, then?"

"I thought—it's not anything special or kinky or anything, it's just something I've always liked doing, so if you really want to—I mean, if you're serious about wanting to do what we like the most, that's my favourite. I just—it was just a thought."

"No, sweetheart, of course," Steve encouraged him, wrapping Bruce's hand in his own. "I shouldn't have spoken for you. What did you feel like doing, then?"

Bruce was blushing too, now. "Well…"

A broad grin spread across Tony's face as Bruce explained. Steve looked thoughtful. "You know, I don't think we've actually done that before…"

"First time for everything," Tony said cheerfully. "Dunno why we haven't, though, like he said it's not exactly something really weird. But hey, you know, if you like it like that," and he threw Bruce a lascivious wink.

"I do like it," Bruce insisted, not letting Tony derail him. "It's always seemed really…intimate. I like the closeness of it, being so connected, you know? It's been such a long time since we came together like this, it would be nice if we could do it in a way that really brings us all close like that. I understand what you meant," he added, nodding at Steve, "of course the important thing is that we're together. And obviously none of the chemistry we have has decreased, so I'm sure it would be wonderful no matter what we did, but I would like to spend the time doing something especially personal. If that's all right with you two."

The cocky humour had faded out of Tony's face while Bruce spoke, leaving in its place a tender, stunned amazement verging on awe. He stared in silence for a moment, his mouth hanging open. "That…wow. Bruce, I… I'm speechless."

"I guess we're _all_ getting what we want, then," Steve muttered. The tension Bruce's emotional speech had generated broke as first Bruce, then Tony snorted and began to laugh. Steve smiled. "So, should we…"

"Lube," Tony interrupted. "We need lots and lots of lube. And you're gonna have to go slow with me, it's been a long time and I'm probably pretty tight. Like, not-enough-fiber tight." He flopped over Steve's legs, rummaging through the drawers in the bedside table.

"_Gross_, Tony!" Steve groaned.

Bruce kicked him gently. "Do you have to take the romance out of _everything_?"

Tony looked up over his shoulder. "You want romance?"

Steve sighed, "oh, Lord…"

"No, seriously, you want romance? Okay."

"Tony…" Bruce warned, but there was no stopping him. Tony abandoned the search, throwing himself on top of Bruce and knocking him flat on the mattress.

"I told you, however you want me. You want romance, okay." He leaned down, his face right up in Bruce's, their lips just barely brushing together as he spoke. "Bruce, I love you. I love you so much it terrifies me. When I'm with you—talking, playing in the lab, or just lying next to you in bed, feeling you breathe—it's like my whole world expands and everything just makes sense. I have never in my life felt so safe as I do in your arms."

After a long moment, just staring at each other, Bruce leaned up and kissed him softly. Steve let a gentle hand trail up and down Tony's back, caressing and stroking him. After a few minutes, Tony pulled back, hovering over Bruce; the scientist had a calm, contented smile on his face, lying relaxed and happy. He nuzzled into Tony's palm when he cupped his jaw in one hand, smoothing his thumb over Bruce's cheek.

Steve yanked Tony back into his lap, pulling his t-shirt up over his head. He planted a wet kiss in the crook of Tony's neck, nipping and sucking a small bruise there as he worked Tony's jeans down his hips. Bruce joined in, pulling the denim free of his legs and tossing them off the bed before taking over the search for lube.

He was successful, hoisting a small tube in the air triumphantly just as Steve got Tony's boxers off. Tony seemed to bask in being the only one undressed, stretching seductively and letting his legs splay wide on the bedspread as he sank down into Steve's lap. Bruce leaned over him to divest Steve of his t-shirt; Tony took the opportunity to undo Bruce's belt.

It was a matter of mere moments—and a little repositioning—before all three were completely bare. Tony propped himself up on his hands and knees, head towards the foot of the bed. Steve gently nudged his knees further apart, tracing gentle circles around his hole with one slick forefinger.

Tony winced, his body tensing as Steve's finger breeched his body. Bruce ran a comforting hand through his hair, peppering his face with light kisses.

"God, you _are_ tight," Steve muttered, almost to himself as he worked his finger in slow circles. He pressed a soft kiss into the dimple at the top of Tony's ass. "You gotta relax for me, babe."

"I am relaxed," Tony grunted, tensing again. "I told you it's been a while."

"You didn't…I mean, not even with your hand, or a toy or something?" Bruce asked.

"I didn't really want to. No, really," he added, seeing their incredulous looks. "I just—I know this is hard to believe considering that it's, you know, me, but…when you guys left my sex drive landed somewhere in the Mariana Trench. I honestly haven't wanted it, not even just by myself."

Steve hummed thoughtfully, pulling his finger out. "Well, we can't do it like this."

"It doesn't have to be today," Bruce jumped in, trying to be reassuring, but to no avail. Tony was already panicking.

"No, no no no, it's fine, I'm not—I'm fine, Steve, I can take it, I just need a little more prep than usual," Tony protested. Steve chuckled, running his palms along the backs of Tony's thighs.

"Oh, don't worry, baby. I'll think of something." Tony gasped aloud, eyes gone wide, at the feeling of a slick wet tongue replacing Steve's finger.

Steve's grin was no less than sinful. He spread Tony's cheeks apart and nosed in between them, circling his hole with the tip of his tongue, giving only the barest pressure and teasing him mercilessly until Tony groaned and thrust back his hips in protest. Steve laughed again and pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss on his hole before diving forward in earnest.

He drew a long, low moan from Tony as he slipped his slick tongue inside him. Bruce was moaning, too, kneading Tony's shoulders as he watched Steve work his tongue forward and back, side to side and in circles, spreading and stretching Tony open gently. Tony was shaking, shuddering, his whole body quivering with every move Steve made.

Tony whined in protest when Steve pulled back a few minutes later, leaving him significantly wetter and looser. He wasn't kept waiting long, though; he was relaxed enough now to take Steve's finger without any discomfort, and one quickly became two as Tony's body remembered and opened for him.

Bruce was watching intently over Tony's shoulder, licking his lips hungrily as Steve added another lube-slick finger. He nosed at Tony's temple, nuzzling him almost cat-like, then trailing his lips over his cheekbone down to his jaw, to his neck, mouthing at his pulse, feeling Tony's heartbeat throbbing under his lips.

A deep thrust of Steve's fingers made Tony buck with sudden pleasure, burying his forehead in Bruce's convenient shoulder. Bruce threaded his fingers into Tony's hair, holding him close with one hand and stroking his shoulder and back with the other.

Steve leaned down, licking a slow circle around where his fingers emerged from Tony's stretched hole. He drew yet another shudder from Tony when he slipped his tongue between them, dipping into him, licking and tonguing at the sensitive skin inside, then pulling back again to lean forward over his back and murmur his own special blend of endearments into his skin.

"Oh, God, baby, you look so fucking hot like this, you know that?" Tony groaned, canting his hips back and up, prompting Steve to push his fingers deeper. "Look at you, so greedy for it. Greedy little asshole, opening up so wide for me. Desperate for it, aren't you? Don't worry, I won't keep you waiting long, babe. Gonna fuck right into you, fill you up just like you need. Spread you open, wrap you around my cock, let you squeeze down tight around me."

Tony moaned again, even higher and needier; Steve kept talking. "You like that, huh? You want me inside you, want me filling you up? You're almost ready for me, you know. Can't believe how good you feel, how tight you are…almost like a fucking virgin, you know that? Tight little thing, pretty little virgin ass just desperate for someone to come open you up and fuck you raw. Is that what you think about?" He leaned even further, kissing his way up Tony's spine to his ear as he spoke. "You close your eyes, all tight like this, pretend it's your first time, the first man to ever get inside you like this? First time feeling someone else's hand opening you up? Someone else's cock sliding up inside you?"

"Steve…" Tony sobbed, drawing the name out. "Steve, please…"

"I think he's ready, Steve." Bruce's voice was hoarse and tight. Steve nodded, grinned at him conspiratorially before hooking a strong arm around Tony's waist.

He hauled the dark-haired man back into his lap, slotting his cock into the cleft of Tony's ass, flicking his hips back and forth a few times to tease him and chuckling at Tony's weak protests. "All right, babe, it's all right. I got you." He worked his hand between them to grip his cock, lining it up with Tony's hole.

Steve kept a firm grip on Tony's hips, letting Bruce steady his shoulders as he pulled Tony down gently onto him. He kept Tony's weight supported, sinking into him agonizingly slowly, bit by bit until at last he was buried all the way in, Tony's back flush with his chest, connected through every inch of bare skin.

"You doing okay?" Steve murmured into Tony's ear.

"Oh, yeah. God, yes," Tony sighed, lolling his head back onto Steve's shoulder. "More than okay. You have no idea how much I've missed this."

Bruce chuckled gently. "I think you'd be surprised."

Tony opened his eyes, smiling absently and pulling lazily at Bruce's arm. "Mmm, well then come on over here and show me how much you missed me."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but obeyed the summons, straddling Tony and Steve's hips. He leaned over Tony's shoulder to kiss Steve, hot, open-mouthed and filthy. Tony watched them for a little while before leaning in, licking at their joined mouths to beg inclusion. They turned their faces towards him, spread their mouths a little wider to let him in. They sat like that for a while, lips and tongues tangling together as they kissed and caressed and tasted each other, Bruce moving his hips forward and back in a slow grind that rubbed his and Tony's cocks against each other.

At length, Bruce pulled back, letting Steve and Tony turn into each other, Tony craning his neck to pull Steve's tongue fully into his mouth. Bruce groped at his side, finding the bottle of lube Steve had discarded there. He popped the top on the small tube, drizzling some on Tony's cock—Tony twitched in surprise at the sudden coolness, but ignored it—slicking him thoroughly before reaching around behind himself. Bruce closed his eyes, letting pleasure wash over him as he worked himself open.

When he felt ready, he sank down onto Tony's cock with a sigh of relief. The sudden pressure around his cock drew Tony's attention, and he made a small contented sound, pressing his forehead against Bruce's. Bruce wrapped his arms around the back of Steve's wide shoulders, gripping his wrists to pull himself as tightly as possible against Tony's chest. He hooked his ankles beneath Steve's knees, following him as Steve shifted, laying back against the bed's headboard until all three were settled, one on top of the other.

A few minutes after they were situated, after a few minutes spent in precious anticipation, spent drinking in the sensation of skin against skin, letting the swells and falls of their chests slowly synchronize; after the anticipation peaked, and burning _need_ became too great; Steve began to move, slowly, slowly, thrusting Tony up into Bruce with languid, controlled strokes.

Bruce braced his chin on Tony's shoulder, loosing a small, contented grunt each time they bucked up into him. He buried his nose in the crook of Steve's neck, breathing in his scent. Steve smelled clean—always clean, no matter what he'd been doing; clean and…_wholesome_, like soap, and nutmeg, and something else Bruce couldn't identify. He breathed deep and slow, savouring the scent and tickling the downy hairs on the back of Steve's neck.

Steve kept his slow, steady rhythm, rocking them up and down in a rolling, gentle wave. He could feel Tony melting into him, his whole body relaxing limp against Steve's solid torso. He lipped gingerly at the curve of Tony's ear, smiling at Bruce, who had gone boneless as well, draped against Tony's chest. Craning his neck to reach Bruce's lips, he planted a soft, modest kiss in the corner of his mouth. His voice was strained with desire and cracked when he spoke. "You still with us?"

Bruce smiled back, humming happily, his eyes half-open. "Just barely. This—ah!" He interrupted himself with a breathy gasp as Steve gave a sudden thrust upwards. "This was a good idea."

"Can we—can we go a little—I need—" Steve groaned.

"Yes," Tony interjected. "God, yes. Please. Harder."

Bruce nodded his agreement, and Steve eagerly doubled his efforts, rocking Tony hard up into Bruce's body. Tony's eyes were wide open now, his previous laziness forgotten, his hands gripping Bruce's upper arms.

Bruce keened as Tony angled his hips up to find his prostate, driving into the sensitive spot with surprising accuracy. The slight change brought him in perfect alignment with Steve as well, who grinned appreciatively at Tony's reactions, scraping his teeth gently along the tender skin of his neck.

The intense sensations converging—the sudden speed and force after _so long_ spent with slow, luxurious motion; the sweat-slick rub of skin against hot skin; the pressure of Tony's hands rigid on his arms, Steve's kneading his ass—had brought Bruce achingly, desperately close. Tony seemed to sense it; maybe from the way his knees trembled and shook with each sharp thrust, or maybe from the way his cock was throbbing where it was pressed between their stomachs, Bruce's pulse thudding in the swollen veins.

Whatever prompted the move, he ran his palm flat down Bruce's side, then slipped it between them, careful not to sacrifice even a single square inch of contact more than necessary to get his hand around Bruce's cock. Bruce arched into him, crying out as he pressed even closer against Tony's chest, arms tightening reflexively behind Steve's shoulders.

The angle was a little tricky, but Tony persevered, working his hand back and forth along the shaft from base to tip. It didn't take long for Bruce, his nerves already in overdrive, to be tensing up, crying out in a wordless moan, clasping them tight as he came hard in hot, sticky spurts. He buried his face in Tony's neck as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm, lipping delicate kisses on every inch of skin.

Craning his neck, he stretched further forward until he could reach Steve as well and give him the same treatment. An encouraging moan, muffled in Tony's hair, sent a thrill along his spine. Bruce chuckled, pleased, and added a gentle scrape of teeth along the expanse of Steve's soft, white neck. He sucked Steve's earlobe into his mouth, nibbling and nipping it, teasing it with his tongue.

Steve was grunting, his face glowing red. His movements were growing erratic, his hips stuttering and jolting as he lost the steady rhythm he'd been keeping. Before long, the pressure Bruce was keeping up on his ear—sucking harder and harder until Steve could hardly stand it, until the pleasure built up to be almost painful—drove him to the edge.

Tony clenched down hard around him, hot slick ass bearing down tighter than ever, and that was it. Steve bucked up, lifting all three of them into the air, then collapsing back down onto the mattress, pulling his ear free of Bruce's teeth as the back of his head hit the headboard. He was spewing a litany of curses through gritted teeth as he came; Tony moaned aloud at the feeling of the sticky, wet fluid filling him up, leaking out his hole where Steve's thrusts had stretched him wide.

Steve was panting, his breath coming in short huffs. He grinned at Bruce over Tony's shoulder, wide and toothy. "Feels good, hmm?"

Bruce sighed a contented hum in response. "Oh, yes." He sat back a little, bracing his arms on Tony's shoulders, then rocked his ass down onto Tony's lap, grinding his hips in slow, rhythmic circles.

Tony gasped at the first roll of Bruce's hips, then shut his eyes and collapsing loose and relaxed against Steve's chest. A long, low, drawn-out and debauched moan slipped out from his lips before his eyes fluttered open again.

"Oh my _god_, babe, that feels so—don't stop, please don't stop, Bruce, just—oh yeah, there, _right_ there, do that agai—_!_" The end of his sentence was cut off in a strung-out wail as Bruce flicked his hips again.

Bruce snickered and kept repeating the motion. Tony keened and shuddered under him, tensing and straining and clutching at Bruce's chest and Steve's arms by turns, grasping at whatever he could reach. Bruce laughed, a good-humoured, full-throated roar, at the sight of Tony's breathless, flushed face, mouth hanging open and eyes half shut.

He snuggled back forward into his boyfriends' arms, cuddling into Tony's chest and kissing Steve sweetly. A soft kiss went on Tony's cheek as well, and a hand carded through his hair; Tony opened his eyes, smiling vaguely at him.

"Hi."

"Hi," Bruce smiled back.

Tony's smile broadened into a dazed grin. "Hi."

He could feel Steve's rumbling laughter through his spine. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"

Tony rolled his eyes, nudging Steve's face with the back of his head. "We're basking in the post-coital glow. Don't be a buzzkill."

Steve wrapped his arms firmly around the two of them, lifting them effortlessly and repositioning them smoothly on the bed. They nestled together, spooning, letting their laughter fade into a contented silence, which at length Tony broke with a sigh.

"Can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

Steve kissed the back of his neck tenderly. "…You know, something my counselor told me, the one I was seeing from the VA? He said our pasts are one of the hardest things to deal with. Too many times, we just ignore the bad things and try to forget them, and it winds up driving us nuts."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this," Tony said, hesitantly.

He got another comforting kiss behind his ear. "We've had a lot of bad, and we can't just forget about it. The trick is to accept the past without letting it keep affecting your present and your future. That's what the counselor said. We shouldn't dwell on how long it's been since we've laughed together, 'cause we won't let it stop us laughing again, I guess."

Tony rolled over abruptly, wrapping his arms around Steve's neck like a very affectionate octopus. Bruce chuckled indulgently and snuggled up to his back, pressing him tight between their chests.

"So what do we want to do now?"

"Well…" Steve hemmed, uncertain. "I guess, Tony moves back in, and then—"

"No, no, no," Bruce chuckled. "I meant, for the rest of the day. It's only, what—" he rolled over to check the clock— "barely 2:30, we've got hours. We could…get dinner, we could watch a movie, we could go out dancing, we could—"

"We could stay in bed and fuck each other's brains out until we fall asleep," Tony supplied hopefully.

"There's an idea," Steve grinned, leaning in to kiss the inventor. Tony opened his mouth, running the tip of his tongue along Steve's lip. They started pressing into each other again, Bruce nibbling the curve of Tony's ear.

They were getting so engrossed in each other that they missed the knock on the outer door, and the cheerful call that followed.

"Hey, guys, you in here? Tasha sent me up to ferret you out, something about a party downst—**_oh my god!_**"

"_Clint?!_ Dammit! Out!" Tony hurled a pillow at the assassin, who dodged it on instinct. Steve was scrambling back, covering himself and blushing bright red; Bruce buried his face in his hands, groaning.

Clint beat a hasty retreat, diving for the door as fast as his legs could carry him and tripping over a chair on his way out. Once the dust settled from his escape, the trio burst out laughing. Tony stretched lazily, curling an arm around each man's waist.

"So, he said something about a party, right?"

Bruce and Steve traded fond, exasperated looks, before tipping Tony out of the bed.

...

Half an hour later, they were showered, dressed and arriving in the Level 17 common room. There was, indeed, a party of sorts; a small buffet table and a group of their closest friends, milling around and chatting. Thor was wearing a brightly-coloured paper party hat and seemed very pleased with it.

Clint was curled up in the corner, rocking back and forth and muttering something about brain bleach and "_why_ is it always _me_?!" Natasha was perched next to him, patting his head absent-mindedly and looking entirely unsympathetic. When she saw Tony looking at them, she tipped him the raunchiest wink he'd ever seen and smirked.

The 'party' went on. Tony was resoundingly congratulated on all sides on both his clean bill of health and his month of sobriety (and several times, in a much subtler way, on his return to Steve and Bruce's favour).

A few hours in, the group was getting loose and Clint had been coaxed out of his shell, despite still seeming a little twitchy ("_I told you, you go wandering around without knocking and you're gonna see some shit._" "_The door was _open_, Tasha, and you're _not helping_!_") Tony found himself alone with Pepper on the side of the room, watching the festivities.

"Do you ever think about, like, the future?" he asked, turning to her abruptly.

To her great credit, and likely due to years of practice, she took the question on its own terms, not analyzing why it was asked or its deeper meanings. "Oh, sure."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, all the time." She shifted her weight, sighed slightly. "I think about the company, how to run it and what choices I should make. I think about the world, what's going to happen now that we know what's out there. I think about people, too; about our family, how we're going to grow as people, how things will change for us and what will stay the same."

"…And?"

She smiled. "And I'm not worried about it, Tony. Every time I think about it, I come to the same conclusion."

"Which is?"

"That we're gonna be fine. Whatever happens, to us or with us or _near_ us, we'll deal with it."

"Huh." He fidgeted with his champagne flute of ginger ale. "But what if—"

"No, Tony. Leave it alone." She cut him off with practiced ease and an indulgent smile, then placed a gentle, chaste kiss on his cheek. "I'm very proud of you."

He watched, dumbstruck, as she strolled away.

"…Okay."

...

A/N: To save you a Google, the Mariana Trench is the deepest part of the ocean. It's in the North Pacific, just east of Guam, and is about 11km deep at its lowest point. Also, sorry for the (second) long wait—a combination of crunch/finals week and writer's block left me talentless for a while. Hope you like the porn!


	20. Chapt 20: Endings Are Hard

Written with love for doctorjamwatson, who said there was no way she was ever going to ship Stark Spangled Banner, to which I replied "challenge accepted."

...

A/N: I don't know how to end this story, but I figure the ending is just the last thing I choose to tell you, so I'm gonna leave you with this.

...

Chapter 20: Endings Are Hard

The next morning, they woke up together.

Steve awoke first. He lay quietly for a while without opening his eyes, feeling a deep sense of contentment suffuse his body. He breathed in deep and slow and delighted in the scent that filled his nostrils—a scent he had missed for so long he'd nearly forgotten it.

The heady spice-smell that somehow clung constantly to Bruce's skin—ginger, coriander, garlic and cloves—was more than familiar. But over the past months, something crucial had been missing; something he couldn't identify.

His eyes still closed, just by breathing, he knew now what had been wanting. The tang of metal and grease that always haunted Tony's hair, the ghost of his workshop that followed him around. The two smells mingled together to make an entirely new scent, sharp and smooth in all the right ways, which curled into the corners of Steve's consciousness; a smell entirely their own.

With one final long breath, savouring the scent he'd been craving like a missing limb, he opened his eyes.

Tony was still wrapped around Steve's neck, his neck craned backwards (at what looked to Steve like an uncomfortable angle) to nestle in the crook of Bruce's shoulder. Bruce himself was pressed up against Tony's back, tighter than tight; one arm tucked under his chest, the other slung over to drape across Steve's side.

Bruce had slept the whole night through. No nightmares, not a single tremor or tremble. He'd had good nights before, but never slept so deep or so calm, not without Tony there too. Steve smiled. He wormed one hand slowly and carefully out from under Bruce's deadweight arm. With a gentle touch he smoothed Tony's mess of hair back from his forehead, tucked a wayward curl back behind Bruce's ear.

Tony's eyes fluttered open. He blinked a couple of times, looking disoriented, until the confusion cleared from his eyes. When he saw Steve watching him, he smiled, sleepy and content; a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

Steve chuckled softly and traced the line of Tony's jaw with his forefinger. "Good morning."

"Morning." Tony tipped his head forward, wincing at the cricks in his neck. Bruce grumbled wordlessly and pressed after him, pushing his nose into the back of Tony's shoulder. Tony laughed at the feeling of Bruce nuzzling him like a cat, then pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth, immediately pulling a face. "Ick, morning breath."

Steve rolled his eyes. He grabbed Tony by the back of the head, ignoring his feeble protests to pull him in for a deep kiss, opening his mouth and running his tongue along Tony's lower lip. When he pulled back, several long moments later, it was to leave Tony considerably more awake.

"Well." Tony's warm brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his voice was tight with arousal.

"Well, yourself," Steve smirked. "And it serves you right."

"Yeah, yeah." Tony tried—and failed—to look contrite. "So…" He wiggled his hips forward, trying for seductive, and mostly failed at that as well. "Morning sex?"

"Oh lord…" Steve groaned, rolling onto his back. Tony tightened his grip on Steve's neck. "Tony, Bruce isn't even awake yet—"

"Am so," came a muffled grunt behind Tony. "You woke me up with smacking noises."

"Well, I would say sorry, but…" Tony sniggered. He poked Steve in the side. "Bruce is awake, Steve."

"Oh, _lord_." Steve rolled back towards Tony and kept on rolling, pinning him to the bed, kissing him down into the mattress. Bruce smiled at the two of them, reached a hand out to stroke delicately down Steve's back.

Steve rolled back off Tony, leaving him gasping and breathless, then reached out a broad hand for Bruce, pulling him forward across Tony's chest to kiss him breathless as well. Tony watched them with hungry eyes.

"So…morning sex?"

Bruce smacked him gently on the top of his head. "No morning sex. Breakfast."

"…Waffles?" Tony asked hopefully.

His companions traded a look. "Waffles," Steve said decisively. Tony grinned and sat up, rattling off a complicated command to JARVIS before snuggling back down into their arms, wiggling until his back was flush with Steve's chest.

Bruce leaned forward, teasing Tony with whisper-soft touches of his lips against Tony's nose, his jaw, the curve of his lower lip, before diving in to kiss him properly. Tony was more relaxed, now, making him sloppier as he opened his lips, sucking lazily to pull Bruce's tongue into his mouth. When they broke apart, it was to a warm, _complete_ feeling spreading through all three of their bodies. Tony buried his face in Bruce's shoulder again, and Steve drew the three of them as close together as he could get.

After a few minutes, Tony broke the contented silence.

"I really missed this," he murmured into Bruce's neck. "More than date nights, more than hanging out in the lab or the gym, more than…more than the sex, even."

"More than sex?" Bruce asked drily, feigning incredulity. "You feeling okay?"

"Don't poke fun. I'm serious." Tony's face was sober, his voice calm and unshaken. "I missed this. Missed us. Well, I missed everything, but this the most. Waking up together, I just…" He sighed. "I missed it."

Bruce relented, kissed his temple, tenderly. "We'll have a lot more mornings like this, babe. I promise."

"I know." Tony gave him a half-smile and lapsed into quiet again.

Then, after a moment: "…and morning sex, _sometimes_?"

Steve groaned and smacked him in the face with a handy pillow, and the bed devolved into a giggling wrestling match until the waffles arrived.

The next morning was more of the same. And the next, and many more after it.

Life was not perfect.

Tony fell off the wagon once or twice, but he kept his word and he kept trying and he stayed in the program and he got clean and under control, and they stood by him through it all. Steve's PTSD popped up again a few times, over the years, sometimes triggered by hard battles and sometimes spontaneous, always terrifying for everyone involved, but he keeps getting help for it they deal and it keeps getting better until they hardly remember it ever was bad. Bruce has an "accident" in his laboratory kingdom involving a pushy lab tech who doesn't recognize him and somehow wasn't properly briefed on protocol, but Tony and Steve calm him down and de-Hulk him and nobody gets hurt except for a few million in equipment and a pair of tighty-whities worn by a no-longer-pushy lab tech.

Life isn't perfect, but there are movie nights and lazy Sunday afternoons and inside jokes and Tony making peace with Phil by conspiring to drive Fury up the wall and life might not be perfect but it's pretty damn close.

After a while there's a small, low-key ceremony, family only. Something to do with rings. Tony denies tearing up to his dying day. Steve and Bruce don't deny it, though, and Natasha tells anyone who'll listen that Tony cried like a baby. It's really not a big deal and Tony's the only person who pays any attention to commemorating it, and everyone knows that he really only keeps track to keep score.

They fight, sometimes for freedom, and sometimes over dirty socks and who skipped out on date night for something stupid and selfish. They go to bed together and they wake up together and the world keeps turning.

Some twenty years later, they're going for a walk in Central Park.

Bruce and Tony went off to track down the ice cream vendor, but that was half an hour ago, and by now they're probably just making out behind the public restroom like a couple of randy teenagers.

Steve doesn't mind. It's a nice day. He sits on a park bench, smiling vaguely and turning his face up to the sunshine. He's pushing 50 now (or 120, depending on how you count), and it seems the serum doesn't stop him from aging, or his many battles from catching up to him. He's still fit, still strong enough to defend his home, but he has aches in his joints and creaks in his bones now, and the warmth of the sun feels nice.

Besides, the world's grown up around him. There are new heroes now, young ones, and young agents and soldiers too. _World's in good hands_, he thinks, still smiling absently. _I can rest now_.

Steve had his eyes loosely shut, reclining relaxed on the park bench, when a nearby cough caught his attention. His eyes flew open instantly, and he began craning his neck to find the source of the sound.

He didn't have to look far. The cough had come from a nervous-looking teen waiting a respectable distance from the bench, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Despite the warmth of the day, she was completely covered, wrapped from head to toe in ratty jeans and an equally questionable hoodie, the hood drawn up to partially obscure her face.

From what he could see, she looked flustered and apprehensive, but defiant and resolved. Steve smiled, encouraging.

"Hi there. You need something?"

She looked at Steve, then at her feet; away, over her shoulder; back to Steve again, back to her feet. She cleared her throat again, swept her gaze in a circle around herself, looking poised to run.

"I—I don't…"

"Hey, it's okay." Steve leaned forward, concerned, his face open and honest. "Come on, come sit down."

He smiled again, hesitantly, as she perched on the bench as far away as she could get from him, on the verge of flight.

"So, what's your name?"

"…Annie." Her voice was hoarse and tight.

"Well, it's real swell to meet you, Annie. What's on your mind?"

"I…" She shifted around uncertainly, looking around again, then fixed Steve with an intense green stare that rooted him to the bench. She spoke with a sudden low intensity, all hesitancy gone, her voice and body radiating focus.

"You _are_ him, right? The Captain?"

"Steve to my friends," he answered, self-conscious, "but yeah, I'm Captain America. Did you…can I…do you need, um…help?" His voice trailed off at the end of his sentence, and he blushed, embarrassed.

"Not exactly—it's just…" She huffed a sharp sigh, frustrated. "How do you _do_ it?"

"Um, do what?" Steve was instantly wearing what Tony still liked calling his "lost puppy dog" look.

"How do you not…" She glared at her hands, twisted them together, fidgeted in her seat. Steve, still completely lost, was on the verge of breaking the tense and awkward silence when she burst out: "How do you not **_hate_** them?!"

"Hate—hate who? What?" Steve's eyes were wide and panicked.

"_People_." Her voice cut through the air like a knife, dark and sharp. "Everything—everything you've _seen_, all the war and hatred and _cruelty_, how can you not— Captain—"

"Steve, please." He cut through her stuttering tirade with one outstretched hand.

"Um, Steve, then." She faltered only a moment, flashing a quick smile before her face turned stormy again. "Steve. After all the things you've seen. People are _cruel_, people hurt you and lie to you and use you and take advantage of you when they're supposed to be the ones _protecting_ you and—"

She cut herself off, her eyes beading up. He murmured "_Annie_," trying to soothe her, but she just shook her head.

"How can you not, just, _hate_ humanity? How can you keep fighting?" She looked right into his eyes, all her defenses dropping away, big green eyes pleading for answers. "How can you still believe people are worth saving?"

"Wow. You, um…" Steve scratched the back of his neck, overwhelmed. "You're awful young to be so _angry_."

Her eyes flashed. "Being _young_ doesn't make me blind, or _stupid_. Or helpless. And there's plenty to be angry _about_." Her jaw set. "Just forget it."

Steve grabbed at her forearm as she moved to stand and run off. "No, please, wait, don't— I'm sorry. I didn't mean that quite how it came out. Please stay."

She sat down again, but jerked her arm away from his touch and kicked at the ground like it had personally offended her. "My opinion's not worth any less 'cause I'm young. Not everybody gets to have a nice sheltered childhood, ya know. I've seen some shit."

"I do know," he responded, calm and sad. "I know about hard childhoods. I grew up in an orphanage, did you know that? Back in the 20's. I never knew my parents."

"You might've been lucky," she muttered, picking at one of the frayed holes in her jeans.

Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly, absorbing the implications. "…Annie," he began, carefully. "Annie, have your parents been hurting you?"

She shot him a look. "Not anywhere you can touch."

"What does that _mean_, exactly?" he asked, testing the ice.

"It means I'm fine."

"Annie…"

"I said I'm fine," she snapped, maybe a little louder than she meant to; she looked around again, retreated in on herself. "It's not—they don't hit me or anything. They don't even, like, yell at me. I don't think they care enough about what happens to me to. They just—they don't…sometimes, the way they are with me, it's like I'm not… I think they forget I'm _human_, sometimes. They talk to me—_about_ me—like I'm just this experiment gone wrong, a busted thing they don't think's worth the effort of fixing." She dug her toe into the ground again, scowling.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered, helplessly. A bully was a bully, but…this wasn't the kind of thing a shield could deflect. This kind of evil didn't have a face for punching.

"Whatever." She shrugged, a calculated nonchalance taking over, the walls going back up. "I can deal."

"You shouldn't have to," he mumbled, soft and self-conscious, but she just rolled her eyes.

"You could fill a book the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica with 'should have's, but it won't get you anywhere." She leaned back on the bench, stretching out her arms and legs and then going limp, arms hanging loose over her head and face turned skyward.

"I just… I don't want to be them, you know?" She shot Steve a halfhearted smile. "My dad, he's so _pissed_ all the time. The bastard hates the whole world, he's got a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. I don't think he even knows what he's holding the grudge for, just blames the whole world and everyone in it for everything that's wrong in his life. I don't want to be that, I can't."

She scuffed the ground with her shoe again, sighed. "But I mean, you were right. I'm _angry_. The world's not _fair_! And people suck _so much_! But I don't—I can't live like that, I can't turn into him, I can't spend the rest of my life hating people, but there is **so much wrong** to be pissed over and I don't know how to let it go."

Green eyes, fraught with emotion, met clear blue. She turned to face him again, turning sideways on the bench to look straight into his face. "So how do you do it? I mean, you've seen so much of the worst of _everything_, doing what you do. How can you still believe in people?"

Steve chose his words carefully. "This is going to sound kind of corny, but…honestly, I just focus on the good. No, really," he added hurriedly, seeing her skeptical expression. "Everything I've seen in all my life, the good has _always_ outweighed the bad in the end. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers in a mock salute.

"Were you really a Boy Scout?" she asked dubiously.

"Nah. Too skinny." That got a laugh. "But seriously. I know it's hard to see the good when there's mountains of bad right in front of you, but people come out all right, at the final count. Some of it's big stuff, like the way people come together and support each other after a disaster, and the way people sacrifice for each other, ordinary people who run into burning buildings to save strangers' lives, you know?"

She was nodding thoughtfully; Steve pressed on. "And sometimes it's small stuff, real small sometimes, the little things people do for each other. Like holding doors open for someone with their arms full. Or…" he smiled, letting nostalgia fill him with warmth, "someone who takes a risk, jumping both feet in and going on hope, just trusting. Or someone who works to make themself better and to grow just because they love someone. Little things."

He came out of his reverie to see her smirking at him knowingly; he cleared his throat, self-conscious. "So, yeah. People do suck, a lot of the time. And we can do really horrible things to each other, for really senseless reasons. I've seen a lot of it. But…when we're good, Annie, we are _so_ good. People can be _so_ kind, and _so_ caring, and **_so_** beautiful. And reminding myself of that, of all the wonderful things people bring into the world, helps me forgive the bad stuff."

She was grinning at him, now, a sort of impressed incredulity stamped on her face. "Does that, um…does that help?" he asked, voice wavering.

"You're like a walking Hallmark card, aren't you?" she laughed, shaking her head.

"Um, I don't…what?"

"You're the real thing," she murmured, ignoring him and speaking more to herself. "Really the real thing. I'll be damned."

"…Annie?"

"Sorry, sorry." She shook the cobwebs out of her head, coming back down to earth. "Yeah, that helps. It helps a lot. Thanks, Cap."

"Um, anytime," he offered, still uncertain. "Listen, is there something—you shouldn't have to be treated that way, I want to _help_ you—"

"You already did," she cut him off, standing and stretching.

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. But I can deal." She grinned over her shoulder at him. "Thanks."

Steve watched her walk away, staring in the direction she'd taken long after her retreating figure was lost to his sight. He probably would have sat there for hours, lost in thought, if Tony and Bruce's reappearance hadn't jolted him back to reality.

"Hey, Cap'n Cutie," Tony teased, tapping him gently on the head with the bottom of a big cone before leaning over to plant a kiss in his straw-blonde hair. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Emotional abuse of minors."

"O…kay." Tony pulled a face at Bruce before flopping down on the bench next to Steve. "Cheerful. What brought that up?"

"I met this girl, and she… She asked me how we can keep trying to save people after all the bad stuff we've seen. It just made me think…there's so much left to _do_, you know? I know we've got young people to carry the torch and keep up the good fight, but…well. I know things are in good hands, but it's hard to let go. There's too much wrong in the world for me to be ready to pack it in. But we're getting older, and there's still **_so_** much left to fix…"

"I know what you mean, but we just have to trust that the world is getting better. We'll do as much as we can for as long as we can, and put our faith in the next generation of heroes to fix the problems we can't solve." Bruce sat down on Steve's other side. "Besides, we've still got a few years of fight left in us."

"I know, but…"

"But nothing. We are badasses, always were and ever shall be, it's the natural order of things. Now eat your ice cream before it melts." Tony jabbed the cone into Steve's face, smearing vanilla on his nose. Steve rolled his eyes and snatched the ice cream out of Tony's hands. Tony grinned like a maniac and grabbed Steve's head between both hands, kissing his face clean before sobering and sitting back down, leaning against his shoulder.

"You know what this reminds me of?"

"Nope," Steve answered, relaxed.

"You remember that little 'party' they threw us? When I got out of the hospital and we all got back together?"

"Vaguely. Why?" Bruce asked, tipping his head sideways to look across Steve at Tony.

"Just something Pepper said."

"What did she say?" Steve asked around a mouthful of ice cream.

Tony flashed him a bright grin. "She's not worried. World's gonna be fine."

"Wait, that—that's it?! We're just 'gonna be fine'?!" Steve stammered out, indignant.

"Yep, that's it!" Tony chirped, and hopped off the bench, bouncing on his heels. "Come on, let's go get some peanuts!"

Steve stared after Tony, open-mouthed, as Bruce ran after him, calling: "you already had two ice creams, you don't need—Tony, _wait_!"

Tony didn't wait. Steve stood by the bench watching Bruce chase Tony in circles through the park. He stretched his arms, shook the creaks out of his shoulders, and smiled up at the sun.

_World's gonna be fine_, he thought. _Sounds about right_.

...

A/N: As most of you have probably already guessed, Annie was a little cameo for my excellent friend doctorjamwatson, for whom I wrote this story.

So, that's it. They got their happy ending, as promised. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Keep an eye out for one more 'deleted scene' from this 'verse—I kinda want to explore how they got together, maybe with some awkward first-time sex.


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